


Horrible and Terrible and Good All At Once

by Mellow_Yellow



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anal Sex, Angst, Arranged Marriage, First Time, Fluff, Forced Bonding, M/M, Miscommunication, References to Child Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-05
Updated: 2016-12-19
Packaged: 2018-09-06 18:12:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 72,071
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8763691
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mellow_Yellow/pseuds/Mellow_Yellow
Summary: Graves was a lead Auror, and as such prided himself on his ability to stay calm in a crisis, to keep his head, to remain even-keeled and articulate no matter the situation. So no one was more surprised than he was when he opened his mouth and heard himself blurting out, “Excuse me, ma’am, but I would like to purchase your son.”Seemingly without hesitation, and before Mary Lou had the chance to respond, Credence burst forth with his own, “Yes, sir, you may have me.”Then they both fell silent, equally shocked at their words. Merlin’s balls. Somewhere upstate, Graves was sure his father had just burst into laughter and had no idea why.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> me: where are all my Arranged Marriage trope fics in this pairing at?  
> me to me: be the fic you want to see in the world, my dude.
> 
> characters, ratings, warnings, etc. refer to the whole work, and will become relevant as the fic goes on. alternate title: to tropes, with love.

* * *

 

There was nothing on earth that Ulysses Silas Graves III took more seriously than his hereditary obligation to protect and carry on his dynastic name. The Graves title had come over with the first wave of Viking warriors; intertwined with an equally powerful indigenous Cherokee line; produced such luminary members as Gondulphus Graves, one of the twelve original Aurors in America, and Scintithia Remaney Graves, the preeminent wand maker of the western territories until 1875; and absorbed countless smaller names in the process through political machinations and magical bonding ceremonies, a wave crashing over the weaker Wizarding families to reach relative hegemony over the impressively short period of three hundred years.

This dominance had not been achieved through coincidence; rather, through steady, strategic, occasionally coldblooded but nevertheless essential adherence to American Wizarding tradition. Without it, the Graves line would have faded away alongside countless others over the years, and its witches and wizards would have retained nothing but mild magical strength. The nameline demanded power, and gave it in return, and Silas was proud of it. He respected the untold power it gave unto its witches and wizards, just as those same magical members strengthened the name itself in return. He considered it a sacred obligation to carry on that name, that cyclical gifting of power, and to shield it for generations to come.

And he was sure his own son would grow to be proud of as well, if he would take the time to pull his proud Auror head out of his rebellious ass for one Merlin-forsaken moment. 

“Father,” Percival was even now attempting to forestall, his voice low and strained, “I cannot emphasize enough the poor timing of this farce.”

“And I, son, cannot emphasize enough how weary I have grown of your avoidance of your familial duty.” Silas brought his hand down sharply down on the desk. “You will be bonded, you will strengthen the Graves name, and that is the end of it.”

He watched as Percival’s face went pale with anger. He was seated in the armchair opposite Silas’ desk, in the second study in the south wing of the Graves family estate in upstate New York. The desk was a gift from a French king whose name Silas would never admit to having forgotten, given to Borgotton Percial Graves I in 1808. For a moment, Silas was transported to the countless times over the last four decades when Percival had previously been called to account for one of his many rebellions. He was no longer a boy, well into manhood, temples gone white with maturity, but Silas couldn't help but glimpse the shadow of a familiar gangly teenager sitting rigidly, arms crossed, stubborn scowl on his mouth, ready to argue with Silas over any and every potential punishment. 

Silas himself had an additional multitude of not-quite-as-fond memories of sitting in Percival’s very position as a young man, being lectured by his own father, who had been rather a bully, in Silas’ biased opinion. Silas did his best to yield the Graves family power with more patience and fortitude than his own father. Percival did his best to make that attempt nearly impossible at every stage.

“I am no longer a child, Father,” Percival said tightly, when he appeared to get his temper under control. “I am nearly forty years old, and therefore not a pawn to be moved at your will.” 

“Such a flair for the dramatic, Percival, honestly.” Silas did not roll his eyes, because he prided himself on his self-control, but it was a near thing. “And you’re right: you’re not a child, you’re a man, and it’s time for you to take on the adult responsibilities of a Graves heir.” At Percival’s continued scowl, Silas threw his hands in the air. “Medusa’s eyes, son, it’s not as though I’m asking you to pull the teeth out of your own head. I’m not even asking you to give up your freedom or independence. In fact, I’m merely requesting that you enter into a bonding that will do nothing but increase your own magical power.” He went for the throat, adding with pointed carelessnes,: “You might even get a promotion out of it. You know how the Congress loves a good throwback to the traditions.”

“I want to advance in my career on my own merits, not because of my family name,” Percival gritted out.

That old chestnut, Silas couldn’t help but think with a sigh, and shot back, “Well, too bad, my boy. It may be comfy where you rest easy upon your laurels, but my patience is running thin.”

Percival arched an eyebrow. Sly as ever, his son. Silas could almost see Percival pivot, changing tactics, checking for weaknesses in Silas’ resolve.

“I cannot believe that you would force me to marry, Father, after all of your bluster against the small-mindedness and racism of European wizards.” Percival leveled Silas with a cold stare, and Silas nearly smiled. The boy thought he had his old man beat, no doubt. Overconfident, as usual. 

Happy as ever for a good, old-fashioned lecture, Silas settled in, droning, “What the magical community in Europe has never understood is that the purity of blood is a mirage. Intermarrying has done nothing but shrink the bloodlines to a trickle, and produced a bunch of weak-jawed witches and wizards with poor constitutions. No, the power of a wizard lies in the loyalty of his or her name, of what it can get you, of what _you_ can do for the name.” He curled the hand on the desk into a fist, frustrated. “Why can’t you _see_ that, my boy? Think of the power it will bring you.”

“You sound like your own type of fanatic,” Percival muttered.

“Welcome to the colonies, my boy. This is how things are done here.” With a grim smile, Silas brought down the heaviest argument in his arsenal. “Do you truly believe your advancement at MACUSA has been a result of nothing save your own personal brilliance?” 

He did not relish the wince that traveled across his son’s face, although he acknowledged its necessity, and hoped it would help bring this tiresome conversation to a close.

“You are a descendant of one of the original Aurors of the United States. Your name brings with it the weight and substance of centuries of wizarding strength and tradition, and most importantly, it legitimizes the Department of Magical Enforcement in a way some Mr. Smith off the street could never hope to achieve. MACUSA hired your name, as much as they hired you. And though it would bring me no joy to do so, if you fail to yield, I will be forced to remove you from our nameline.”

Percival jolted at the words, looking truly stunned for the first time since he had slunk into Silas’ office like the resentful youth he hadn’t been for nearly twenty years.

“Father,” he rasped, clearly taken aback. “You wouldn’t.”

“I wouldn’t want to,” Silas corrected, suddenly weary. “But I would if I needed to.”

Removing a witch or wizard from a nameline was as close to the No-Maj custom of disinheritance as the American wizarding community possessed, although the implications were much more dire. Without a nameline, a wizard was alone in the world, no connections, no support, no way to advance or get ahead beyond the most grueling of dues-paying. But on a deeper level, it left a witch or wizard unable to access his or her most authentic reserves of power. It cut him or her off from their roots, and their ability to connect with the Wild Powers that so many American magical peoples were growing more removed from every day.

Watching his son's wide eyes, Silas suspected that for all his talk, Percival did very well realize the strength of the Graves nameline, and how much he relied on it for his magic, and how far it had brought him in his career. The threat of its removal had probably made his entire magical life flash before his eyes in glaring technicolor. 

“Let’s be reasonable,” Percival began, but Silas cut him off, resolute.

“I would not stand in the way of your professional advancement and personal happiness for my own amusement, Percival,” Silas said quietly. “I am not a monster.”

Percival glanced away. “Father, I would never suggest—”

“That said, I am also not to be trifled with. We have gone in circles on this topic for years now, and I suspect that your ultimate plan is to hope that one day I will simply lose my energy and allow you to dilute the Graves name through apathy while I stand idly by.” Silas let the silence hang. He raised his eyebrows just slightly at Percival’s telling silence. “Alas, you have miscalculated, my son.” 

He pushed forward the contract scroll his head lawyer had assembled the day before. “You have ten days to find a witch or wizard with which to bond, and therefore strengthen your own magic, and in turn, ensure the continuance and strength of our nameline. Failure to do so will result in your removal from the Graves line.” 

For perhaps the first time in recent memory, Percival seemed speechless. Silas gazed across the desk at his son, forever clever, always hardheaded, often calculated, but rarely cowed, and regretted that it had come to this. But such was the reality of the day, it seemed. 

“I’m not a child to be trifled with,” Percival said softly, in total dismay and growing rage.

“You’re _my_ child, Percival. You always will be. And as such, it’s my responsibility to look out for your best interests.” 

“I will never forgive you for this.” The words sounded ripped from Percival’s very throat, like a vow from the days of Wild Magic.

Silas rose from behind the desk, feeling old and fatigued and a little despondent. “So be it."

Pulling out his wand, his cast a Signatoria, the swirling signature scrawling itself across the bottom line. 

“With my name thus writ,” he intoned, following the spell incantation as established by his lawyer, “I commit to the terms of the contract. If you fail to sign by nightfall, I will proceed with your removal from our nameline covenant. Otherwise, I look forward to meeting the witch or wizard who will contribute to carrying on the strength of the Graves name.” 

He stepped from around his desk and walked toward the door. He paused at his son’s side, where he still sat, silent and stunned, in the armchair. Silas sighed, looking down at Percival’s dark head, the bright white undercut he had unfortunately adopted at the turn of the century and had yet to waver from, damn these rebellious new haircuts to their roots. 

“I’m sorry it has come to this,” Silas murmured.

When Percival refused to respond, Silas straightened and left the study. He had done all he could, and it was in Percival’s hands now. 

Merlin help them all.

 

* * *


	2. Chapter 2

* * * 

 

As Graves settled into his corner in the alleyway across from the bank, he did his best to push the ringing echoes of his fight with his father from his mind, focusing on the primacy of the task at hand. He tried not to feel the dread at the thought of tying himself to someone else for the rest of his life. Most unsettling of all, he attempted not to dwell on the fact that he couldn’t think of a single witch or wizard with whom he could ask to be bonded to his nameline.

It was a bitterly cold autumn day, and with the wind whipping under his robes and the memory of the argument pushing for his attention, his focus wasn’t what it should be. Nevertheless, he slurped from the bitter No-Maj coffee in his hand, cast a quick Invisibility spell, and settled in for a long morning of surveillance.

Across the street, the Second Salemers had begun to amass a respectable crowd. Passing No-Majs always seemed most eager to pause and listen to a few religious crackpots spout their nonsense during mid-morning and late afternoon, but not any earlier nor in the evening time, to Graves’ slight bewilderment. He’d never been skilled at interpreting No-Maj habits.

At the bottom of the steps, Mary Lou Barebone had begun revving up the crowd. She had a gift for showmanship, Graves had to grant her that. As grim and humorless as her delivery tended to be, she knew how to work a crowd.

“New York is a city of untold wonders,” Mary Lou was opining, a thin, pursed smile on her face, “and we are the lucky ones to live in a time of such development, such miracles!” The crowd nodded jovially; New York City was indeed a marvel, they were indeed blessed for living here, no objections yet.

“But living alongside us lies a danger we can’t even see. Satan walks amongst us, but he takes many magical forms we might never have suspected. We must be vigilant, and watch for these forces that will destroy our city.”

The crowd appeared less enthused by this turn to the fire and brimstone, but Graves focused on Mary Lou’s every word.

“They look like us, but they have powers that far surpass our own. Do not be fooled by their magic; they are demons sent to destroy us.”

That appeared to be a turning point for the crowd, and most of the No-Majs began to disperse. Magic was normally a more difficult sell, like the very mention of it marked a turn for the sensational.

“I ask you to join with the New Salem Philanthropic Society, and help us rid this scourge from the earth.”

Behind Mary Lou, a tall, willowy boy bent to hand a leaflet to a nearby member of the crowd as his heel slipped on the edge of the step, sending him stumbling down to bump against Mary Lou’s back. He caught himself, just as Mary Lou turned to hiss some rebuke at him and, slightly removed from the crowd’s view, jabbed her elbow into his ribcage.

The boy skittered back, moving several steps away to resume handing out leaflets.

Graves gritted his teeth at the sight, as loathsome as it was growing familiar. 

The Second Salemers had been brought to Graves’ attention by Porpentina Goldstein several months back, before she had decided to cast a blasting curse against her entire career. At first Graves had brushed them off as nothing but another No-Maj church charity. He was busy enough as it was with the strange, unexplainable episodes of destruction that were popping up all over the city, and he had no time for No-Maj cults.

But when the third tenement building in Manhattan had been wrecked to bits by what had by all accounts appeared to be an unidentified magical force two months ago, Graves had wondered at how similar the devastation of the building had been to the words mentioned time and again in Mary Lou’s streetside sermons. He began to puzzle over them both, whether there was a connection afoot, and if so, what kind.

His surveillance over the following weeks had revealed that the Second Salemers were definitely an extremist group of some kind. Graves suspected Mary Lou herself to be affiliated with several underground Scourers, and potentially involved in the trafficking of underage magical persons. He was reasonably sure she was connected to a series of magical kidnapping from years ago and hoped to build a case on all three charges. 

It was still too early in the investigation to justify an arrest, even of a No-Maj, however, and while normally Graves would delegate the drudgery of preliminary intelligence collection to an intern or a young witch or wizard looking to advance, he found himself hesitating with this case.

At the very least, the Second Salemers were a dormant threat to the Statute of Secrecy and needed to be looked into. And so, Graves determined that his main objective was to determine how best to infiltrate their ranks before handing it off to a lower agent.

At least, that was his objective in the beginning. The longer he observed the group, the more intrigued he found himself in the three waifs that Mary Lou Barebone kept at her beck and call. And the more he found himself grimly bearing witness to the brutal world of No-Maj familial cruelty.

He was reasonably sure all three, the two girls and the young man, were magical to some degree. The girls clung closest to Mary Lou, and that appeared to shield them from the majority of her ire. The boy was never so lucky.

Credence, Graves had discovered his name was. It was grimly apt.

It had also been Tina who had first brought Credence’s abuse to Graves’ attention. When she had ultimately become overly involved and been removed from Graves’ department, it had been because of her misguided, emotional attempt to rescue Credence, and at the time Graves had been infuriated over her carelessness. How could she have thrown away her future at MACUSA over one little No-Maj and his sad life? 

Only now, Graves could see Credence wasn’t precisely a No-Maj, and after watching Mary Lou’s systematic attempts to grind any sign of life from the boy’s eyes, he could almost see what might have driven Tina to act out.

Graves’ own father had been a strict disciplinarian in Graves’ youth, and especially now, Graves had difficulty understanding what would motivate him to threaten Graves’ very livelihood by demanding Graves follow the nameline bond, as he had done that morning. But he was starting to appreciate the distinction between hardness and outright cruelty. 

He watched the Second Salemers, and he found himself focusing on Credence’s dreary, brutal life as it unfolded before Graves' eye in hours-long intervals multiple times a week, when Graves could escape from paperwork and office responsibilities. 

He’d come to the conclusion that Credence was either the strongest soul Graves had ever witnessed to be able to withstand the abuse he did, or he was dead inside. 

He peered at Credence, and wondered, and he could admit to himself that his interest was fast growing to be more than purely academic. 

At least the boy couldn’t see him staring.

 

* * *

 

The man was watching Credence again. Credence could see him out of the corner of his eye, even as he kept his gaze fixed on the ground, like always.

Well, the man was watching the crowd that had gathered around the Second Salemers, and he was watching Ma’s attempts to rouse them through fiery prose, so by extension, he was watching Credence. He kept an eye on all of them, though, so there was no reason for Credence to think he would be focusing on just him. Credence was nothing special, after all, as Ma took great pains to impress upon him on a nearly daily basis.

The man was leaning against the mouth of an alley across the street from the bank where Ma had set up their ministry for the day. He had a cup of coffee cupped between his hands and his typical impassive expression; he always did, as though anything could happen before him, a meteor falling out of the sky, a baby being born, and it would make no difference to him.

Credence did his best to focus on Ma’s sermon and the subtle cues on when to begin handing out leaflets to the crowd. She always insisted the very beginning and the very end were the best times to strike, when the crowd’s hearts and minds were made vulnerable not only by her words but by the bedraggled, pathetic orphan children who flowed at her feet. Not that Credence or Modesty or Chastity were strictly orphans, per se, nor Credence a child any longer, but the rest of the children Ma sometimes gave bread to often helped minster as well, and Credence could see the appeal.

People seemed to respond to the girls, and the other young children. Something in their innocence and vulnerability seemed to speak to the regular man or woman, and open their hearts.

They rarely reacted so charitably to Credence. He was far from the wan, pale boy he had once been. Now he could do nothing but stand hunched and looming at the back of Ma and the children like a distracting crow, in Ma’s own words. He did his best to stay out of the way, forgotten, where he was free to escape into his own mind and the wild, soothing imaginings therein. 

Until the man began watching him and Ma and the others from afar, and Credence's ability to drift amongst his daydreams snapped under the scrutiny.

At first the sight of the man had unsettled him. He was older than Credence by at least a decade, rangy strength emanating from his limbs wherever he happened to be watching. He dressed well, obviously wealthy, hair in a sharp, pomaded style Credence usually only saw on actors on the posters outside the picture theater. 

The man was also, inarguably, the most handsome man Credence had ever seen, and that alone made him frightening because it made the man that much more difficult to ignore, and Credence that much more aware of his own perversity and unworthiness. 

The more the man appeared to watch, the more Credence wondered if he was hallucinating his image. Modesty and Chastity certainly didn’t seem to notice him, let alone Ma, and the man himself seemed confident that no one would find it odd that the same well-dressed individual found the time to listen to Ma’s sermons two or three times a week.

Now, countless weeks in, the man watching from a careful distance had become nothing but the occasional bright distraction in the otherwise dull drudgery of Credence’s life. Occasionally, in the lag between sermons when Ma had the time and attention to be especially cruel, or when the crowds were unusually dismissive, ignoring Credence’s outstretched leaflets like he was nothing more than a vapor, it was humiliating to know those dark, emotionless eyes were taking in every indignity. Other times, when he felt close to going mad such that a familiar and frightening darkness within him bubbling to the surface just to prove he wasn’t invisible, making him want to shriek at the injustice, the lack of attention or affection that was somehow his punishment for merely daring to exist—the knowledge of those eyes upon him felt validating. It made Credence feel more real, somehow, knowing that at least one other person, as odd and mysterious and slightly threatening as the man was, saw him.

Ma's insistent voice rang out. “I ask you to join with the New Salem Philanthropic Society, and help us rid this scourge from the earth.”

That was Credence’s cue. He moved in coordination with Modesty and Chastity and the handful of other children who had joined them today, moving to distribute leaflets before Ma’s sermon wound down and the crowd wandered away. But as Credence stepped down he caught sight of the man out of the corner of his eye, and like a fool, his foot slipped on the slick stone of the bank steps.

He stumbled, and if he wasn’t already so hungry he felt lightheaded he probably would have caught himself, but he had let himself become distracted, which had always been his downfall.

In his momentum, he bumped into Ma. 

She turned her head sharply, and he tilted his own gaze down as far as it would go. Nothing set her off like eye contact. “You clumsy abomination,” she hissed at him, and in a short movement, she elbowed him in the ribs, the motion quick and over with before any but the most observant individuals in the crowd would notice, and even then, they’d assume Credence had deserved it, somehow, rather than intervene on his behalf.

They always did. 

He hurried away, backing up until his shoulder bumped the edge of the stone railing. He held out his leaflets to several uninterested passersby, doing his best to keep his hand from shaking. They always shook when he was startled or scared, no matter how often he was both of those things. His body couldn't seem to grow numb enough to break the habit.

He didn’t know why he stayed, most days.

He wasn’t a child any longer. He could leave, and with relative ease. He glanced to his left without moving his head, catching sight of Modesty and Chastity taking turns earnestly speaking with an older couple, who were patiently nodding and smiling at the girls before them. Modestly had a hand clenched tight in the skirt of her dress. She hated talking to strangers, but if she objected, she’d be without dinner. Ma had done it before.

If Credence left, he knew that Ma would no doubt shift her attentions to one of them, most likely Modesty, who had always been a little slower than Chastity when it came to the politics of being an erratic fanatic’s daughter. And if it wasn’t one of the girls, she would most likely absorb one of the hapless hoard she occasionally fed like a colony of feral cats, because if there was one thing Credence knew about Ma, it was that she could not bear being without an outlet for her righteous rage.

What was more, she’d seemed distracted lately. It made a creeping sense of misgiving shoot through Credence. It felt safer having her close than letting her roam the city, like a foreboding shadow forever haunting his back.

By the time the crowd had dispersed it was time for lunch, and Credence’s belly was twisting in knots. Ma seemed to sense it and smirked as she came to stand before him. He went still, straightening from picking up the last of the leaflets, keeping his eyes on his shoes like always.

“You’ll stay to clean up the forgotten leaflets,” she told him. She gestured at the crumpled, forgotten papers left behind by the disinterested crowd. “If you’re back before an hour has passed, I’ll know you were lazy and careless and did not do your job well in God’s eyes. If I feel you've not done your duty well, you'll get no lunch, and no dinner besides.” 

He hadn’t eaten since lunch the previous day. She knew that. He looked behind her at Modesty and Chastity, who wouldn’t meet his eyes, and behind them, at the orphan children who were themselves too hungry to look anything but ravenous, the knowledge that a free lunch was near more important than some tall, skinny stranger.

All Credence could do was nod, and watch as his family walked away.

The anger rose up unexpectedly in a sudden, overwhelming wave as it occasionally did, unique from Credence’s standard feelings of unfairness and frustration. It felt like a wild monster trying to break free from Credence’s skin. It made him dizzy. He set the pile of leaflets down and leaned against the stone wall, sliding to sit. He wondered if the man was still watching him from across the street.

He had an idle thought that he hoped so, and that's when the entire world spun over and over and over again. 

He had a terrible sense of being trapped in a nightmare while still awake, sounds and lights and smells happening all around him but coming through in pieces, as though stopped by some kind of veil that encased him. His heart was pounding painfully. The anger within him felt unstable, and he hoped it wouldn’t tear him to shreds as it sought its freedom.

Then, he was still. He opened his eyes, and he was alone in a deserted street corner he didn’t remember. He looked around and saw at the corner a familiar street sign. He was only a few blocks from home.

“Credence!”

The snap of Ma’s voice cut through the street. Credence wondered dazedly if she knew what he’d done, and then he could only blink, puzzled, because he himself was not sure what he had done, so how would Ma know?

“You are a lazy, unclean, worthless being,” Ma was saying, in that deadly calm, almost friendly voice she used when Credence knew he was really in for a beating. She was approaching quickly and she didn’t seem surprised at seeing him lying crumpled and disoriented, as if any curiosity toward his well-being was such a foreign practice not even then most outrageous of stimuli would cause her to break.

His stomach felt like it was sinking. He didn’t have the leaflets with him.

She was before him now. Time seemed to be stuttering. He still felt like he was careening through the air, darkness and chaos flying around him. Ma held out her hand. 

“Your belt, Credence.” 

Too perplexed to do anything but obey, Credence unbuckled his belt with trembling hands and handed it to his mother, and let his body go slack, hoping that his punishment would at least be swift, and he would be left alone.

 

* * *  

 

By the time Graves reached the back alley, the scene was in chaos. 

He’d left his observational post after Mary Lou and her child army had departed, leaving Credence behind to tidy up. When Credence had seemed to fall asleep beneath the stairs and since the boy had seemed exhausted anyway, Graves had been comfortable to leave him to his rest and had turned to Disapparate back to the MACUSA offices.

Instead, he had heard an ear-shattering crack, and he’d turned around to see Credence had vanished.

Without pausing to wonder why he suddenly felt so panicked, Graves had circled the block once, then twice, then fanned out further, searching for Credence. Nothing. 

It wasn’t until he’d heard the telltale snap of a belt buckle an alleyway over, and the accompanying harshness of Mary Lou’s voice, that he’d come upon the scene itself.

Credence was backed into the corner of the alley, nearly Mary Lou’s size even cowed as he was on his knees but seeming resigned to his face. His belt was off his pants, and Mary Lou was brandishing it. He looked haunted, but not necessarily by Mary Lou herself. He was covered in a thin layer of dust, Graves saw. From what, he could only guess. 

“Is there some problem I can assist you with?” he called out as he approached. 

Mary Lou stiffened, whirling around. At her feet, Credence looked up and seemed to startle. An odd light of recognition came into his eyes. Graves didn’t understand it. There was no non-magical way Credence would know him.

“I thank you not to interfere in a family matter,” Mary Lou said tightly. She had the same sour expression on her face as when she was trying to convince a crowd of strangers she was a righteous, holy woman. It looked like a lot of work. 

Graves nodded, buying time, but didn’t step away. Seeming to assume his disengagement was only a matter of time, Mary Lou turned back, adjusting her hold on the belt in his hand so the buckle hung more loosely. She looked prepared to beat him over the head with the metal buckle. From the red mark already swelling on Credence’s shoulder she’d gotten a head start. 

“I’ll beat the demons from your body,” Mary Lou was threatening, and Graves, who had faced dangerous wizards and Scourers and all types of unsavory characters in his career as an Auror, was struck by the darkness in her voice.

Instinctively Credence reared back until he was clutching at the leg of Graves’ pants for support, or possibly protection. He needn’t have bothered; Graves already found himself stepping forward, placing himself between Credence and the belt, the buckle clinking merrily in one of Mary Lou’s clenched hands. 

Credence was magical, Graves found himself noting hurriedly. He could feel it on the boy's skin even from a short distance. He might have been raised by a hateful No-Maj, but he’d been part of a magical family at one point. He had a feeling that was why Mary Lou targeted all of the children she raised.

All the Graves nameline bond needed was a willing magical participant, and the magic would be sealed.

Graves was a head Auror, and as such prided himself on his ability to stay calm in a crisis, to keep his head, to remain even-keeled and articulate no matter the situation. All he had to do was keep his head here, and he could solve both his dilemma and Credence’s with the smoothness and style typical of one of America’s most-respected Aurors.

So no one was more surprised than he was when he opened his mouth and heard himself blurting out, as though he hadn’t gone through entire courses of interviewing witnesses and suspects: “Excuse me, ma’am, but I would like to purchase your son.”

Seemingly without hesitation, and before Mary Lou had the chance to respond, Credence burst forth with his own, “Yes, sir, you may have me.”

Then they both fell silent, equally shocked at their words. _Merlin’s balls_. Somewhere upstate, Graves was sure his father had just burst into laughter and had no idea why.

Mary Lou bit out something poisonous-sounding beside them, but Graves didn’t quite hear her. He was busy staring down into Credence’s wide, stunned eyes, and wondering two things:

What in Madea’s seven hells had just happened, and how had his father managed to manipulate him so handily from afar without even the aid of magic?

 

* * * 


	3. Chapter 3

* * *

 

Credence had never been in a car before. It was thrilling, and slightly terrifying, much like the entire day had been so far.

He was in the front seat of a brand new Model T, with the mysterious man who had appeared out of nowhere to save him from pain, and Credence felt he’d imagined the whole thing. The mysterious man whose name was Graves, Percival Graves, as Credence had lately learned. 

Ma and the girls were in the backseat.

If he’d actually imagined this scenario, being swept up and saved by a handsome stranger, Credence doubted he would have included Ma in the adventure, and so he decided the entire thing must really be happening.

After frantically accepting Mr. Graves’ offer (an offer of what Credence wasn’t quite sure yet, since he was reasonably sure it was illegal to offer to buy a human, but in the moment of chaos Credence would very well have offered to pay Mr. Graves himself to escape, so he wasn’t too bothered by the legalities involved), Credence had realized he’d more or less left Modesty and Chastity to Ma’s mercy. Once Mr. Graves took Credence wherever it was Mr. Graves was planning, the girls would be left behind. Credence had panicked, and asked Ma if he could take the girls with him. Ma had exploded, screeching that a godless heathen like Credence had no right to even speak his sisters’ names, let alone ask permission to abscond with them to a den of iniquity (she was clearly coming down from the bellicose high of a well-delivered sermon).

“Oh, for Merlin’s sake,” Mr. Graves had muttered, and raised his voice to silence them both. “We’ll go together and figure this out. Just stop talking. No more talking.” That last bit had seemed to be directed at Ma, who never took orders from anyone, but seemed content to bide her time until she could more effectively unleash her ire on Credence or Mr. Graves or whoever happened to be nearby, Credence was sure.

So they’d gone to the abandoned church where Ma had installed them three months ago, and found Modesty and Chastity, dutifully handing out leaflets and runny oatmeal to a hoard of hungry street children. Once summoned, they'd meekly followed, shocked into silence, as Ma gestured them outside, where they stood waiting for a sign from Mr. Graves, who merely looked frustrated.

Credence stepped closer to Mr. Graves, lowering his voice to ask, “Where do you mean to take us now?”

“Wait here,” Mr. Graves had said gruffly and swept around the corner out of sight. There had been a pop, then a long, keening whistle, and then Mr. Graves had reappeared and gestured impatiently for Credence and Ma and the girls to follow. When they turned the corner a shiny black Model T was waiting for them, sides faintly steaming like a stallion that had won a race.

Credence got the oddest feeling that the car hadn’t... _been_ there, before. But he couldn’t articulate what he meant quite clearly, and so got into the front seat without complaint when Mr. Graves held the door open.

And now they were bouncing along the road, leaving the city, the car deadly silent, almost unnaturally so.

From behind Credence’s head, Ma snapped out, “We have plans for the rest of the day. If you want to take Credence, we need not travel to Mars to make the deal.”

Mr. Graves muttered a few words under his breath and reached into his jacket to fiddle with something. The car went completely silent, as though Ma’s voice had been sucked clean from her body and an impenetrable curtain erected between the front and back of the car.

“I’ll be honest, this was a bit of a spur of the moment thing,” Mr. Graves said to Credence as though nothing had happened. A corner of his mouth quirked up. Lord, he was beautiful. Credence looked down at his hands, broad and clumsy and twisted up in his lap.

“What did you mean before, when you offered to...buy me?” he asked after a moment.

Mr. Graves shifted uneasily. “I’m sorry about that. I didn’t quite mean—obviously, if you didn’t want to come with me, I wouldn’t have a leg to stand on. I just got the feeling that your dear mother back there, well. She wouldn’t leave you alone without a little incentive.” 

That made sense. Credence had no doubt Ma would love to make a profit off his hide, after years of feeding him more than she thought he deserved and clothing him and putting a roof over his head. So that was Ma figured out, but he still didn’t understand Mr. Graves.

“What do you even want me for?” For the first time, it occurred to Credence that perhaps he should be afraid, that there were worse things in the world than Ma and her unpredictable malice. 

Graves glanced at him, frowning a bit when he saw Credence staring avidly at his hands. “So, look. You’re going to hear a lot of strange and fantastic things over the course of today. A lot of it is going to be overwhelming. Some of it might be frightening. But I can promise you that no one is going to force you to do anything. I won’t let them. Do you trust me?”

It seemed an odd thing for a stranger to ask, to Credence. There was no way anyone but a simpleton could automatically trust an unknown man who had swooped in and offered to buy someone else like a handbag. Still, if there was one thing Credence understood, it was appeasing a potentially unstable tyrant. He didn’t think Mr. Graves was a tyrant, not like Ma, but a stable man didn’t go around buying twenty-two-year-olds, so he figured it was best to practice what he knew.

“Of course I do,” he lied evenly. Necessarily.

“Perfect. Great.” Graves smiled, but it looked off. He seemed distracted. Fair enough, Credence supposed. If he was to be believed, none of this had been on his schedule for the day, either. They had both been caught off guard. 

They drove for a half hour or so, Ma and the girls blessedly silent due to that mysterious barrier in the back. He refrained from glancing back, not wanting to catch Ma’s eye, and yet for some reason he knew that until Mr. Graves decided so, no one from the backseat would be heard by the front seat. 

Uneasily, the word _magic_ flitted through his overstimulated brain. He immediately stifled it and did his best to settle in.

Credence let himself lean back in his seat and closed his eyes.It was a relief. He hadn’t realized how tired he was, just in general. It felt like the first time he’d been able to truly relax all the muscles in his body in years.

Credence could feel Mr. Graves’ eyes on him, but it didn’t bother him. If anything, it made me relax more. A man who could control sound could surely watch over one skinny nobody while he drifted to sleep for a while.

 

* * *

 

Against all logic, the boy slept.

This close, Graves could see how gaunt his face was. He had deep shadows under his eyes and under his sharp cheekbones as well. Merlin only knew the last time Credence had slept easily, or eaten a full meal. 

Medea’s hair, how had he managed to enwrap himself in this level of melodrama so quickly?

Still, Graves made no move to rouse him. From the back seat Mary Lou had been steadily glaring at Graves via the rearview mirror since they’d left the city. She’d stopped trying to break the Impenetrable Barrier he’d erected cordoning off the car several miles back, apparently catching on that there was nothing she could do to break the silence on her own. In fact, there was a shrewd light in her eye. Like she wasn’t unfamiliar with the charm, somehow.

It didn’t matter, Graves assured himself. She and the girls would be Obliviated within in a few hours. They wouldn’t remember this journey, and if he was careful, he might even be able to erase their memories of Credence, although long-term memories could be finicky.

He couldn’t quite recall why the entire damn family was with him anyway. He’d fended off Mary Lou, and found himself helping Credence to his feet, the boy shifting his grip to grab firm hold of Graves’ coat, and Graves had let him. Even after it was clear Graves wouldn’t let Mary Lou continue to hit him with the belt, Credence shook like a leaf in the wind. Adrenaline, Graves decided. He hoped it was nothing more than that.

Then Credence and Mary Lou had devolved into an argument about the girls. Credence, apparently panicking, had clumsily tried to negotiate their custody, while Graves could only watch, bemused, as no one asked his permission one way or the other.

He’d nevertheless been sorely tempted to stun the horrible woman, abduct both girls permission be damned, and Disapparate them alongside Credence to the Graves estate and be done with the whole mess. But he was an Auror, a director of an entire department no less, and he couldn’t go around stealing children, no matter how expedient it might have seemed at the time. The law. He was a man of the law. 

Which was how he found himself, no Apparating, not even accessing a nearby Portkey, but instead squished into a garbage bin he'd hastily transfigured into a No-Maj car, rumbling along with an exhausted young man at his side, two deeply befuddled little girls in back, and one religious fanatic so furiously angry her eyes seemed to glow in the reflection of the rearview mirror.

They were close to the Graves’ estate, now. He didn’t live here primarily any longer, preferring his apartment in the city, but Graves had a feeling a lot of his regular routines were about to get disrupted with the advent of this unplanned bonding.

When they pulled up to the front gateway, Graves turned to Credence, who continued to snooze. He shook Credence's shoulder gently, and despite his care nevertheless managed to rouse the boy into a gasping panic. 

“No, it’s fine, it’s only me,” Graves said, attempting to quiet him, not really understanding why assurances that a stranger was nearby would quiet the boy but it was all he had, so he went with it.

Miraculously, Credence blinked, appeared to recognize Graves, and settled. “Oh. Sorry.” He swallowed, pulling at his thin shirt where it had twisted around his body. “I get—I get nightmares, sometimes.”

Graves glanced back Mary Lou. He was deeply, deeply unsurprised. She opened her mouth, clearly getting her second wind now that they were stopped, but he turned his back on her, ignoring her for now as it dawned on him that he should probably prepare Credence to meet his father.

He was suddenly restive at the prospect. “My father is inside,” he said. He glanced past Credence’s shoulder to see Prudentia, his father’s most trusted house elf, watching uncertainly by the front steps, momentarily glamoured to look like a normal human woman, albeit short and stout. “He’ll want answers to many questions about the bonding, and about you.”

"Bonding?" Credence nodded, brows furrowing just slightly like he had any idea what Graves was referring to, which Graves knew he did not. “Alright. I’ll tell him whatever he wants to know.” He seemed worried that Graves had suddenly turned so worried, which Graves guessed made sense. Credence’s fortunes had shifted to rely entirely on Graves’ whim, so he must feel he had a vested interest in keeping Graves calm. 

“No, that’s not quite what I mean.” Graves wasn’t sure why it was so important to him that he keep the impulsive nature of this bonding from his father. Pride, probably. He already felt like his father was winning everything. He didn’t need to know that Graves had literally plucked his future partner off the street. “It may be advantageous to, potentially, let my father think what he wants about...certain things. So to speak. About how we know one another, how we met. Give the man a bone.” He tried to shoot Credence a winning smile, but Credence seemed immune. He was still frowning. “Just follow my lead.” 

“You mean lie to him,” Credence said. He didn’t sound upset. Rather, like he was trying to ensure he’d gotten the message right and wasn’t missing any details.

Still, Graves hedged. “Lie is such an ugly word.” 

Credence didn’t argue semantics. He merely waited, eyes fixed on Graves, as though awaiting instruction. Graves got the feeling that lying didn’t matter to Credence, so much as knowing the rules and expectations of his new situation. It was Graves that had turned soft, apparently, because he felt uneasy at instructing the boy to lie outright.

“Let me do the talking. And your mother, as I’m sure she’ll have plenty to say for the both of us. If my father asks you questions, of course you can answer, but try not to go into too much detail.” He made a face at himself. What an asinine set of directions.

But Credence was nodding. The boy lived in a world of nonsense rules, run by a petty dictator. He accepted Graves’ ridiculous edicts as read.

Still troubled, Graves reached for his wand in his coat and attempted to remove the barrier as inconspicuously as possible, but of course when he glanced up Credence was watching him curiously.

“Wait—are you.” Credence cocked his head, studying Graves without making eye contact. He had a funny habit of avoiding looking anyone in the eye, it seemed. “You’re not a regular person, are you?”

“He’s a witch, you stupid, stupid boy,” Mary Lou spat from the back seat, the barrier successfully lowered. Her eye roll was nearly audible in its intensity.

“A _witch_?” the youngest girl, Chastity, exclaimed on a high pitch, like a baby owl. 

“Quiet.” Mary Lou moved to open the door. “Let’s get whatever deal with the devil we’re here to make out of the way. We have worship in an hour.” She bustled out with the girls, seemingly unconcerned with the great manor before her, or the way Prudentia’s glamour had begun to slip, revealing her broad ears.

Credence was still sitting in his seat, stunned. “You’re a witch?” he whispered in disbelief.

“I’m a wizard.” Graves watched Credence blink rapidly, like his vision had wavered. “That’s what I meant about strange and fantastic things. In fact, that’s just the beginning.” He sounded too gruff. Of course Credence was shocked. The devil-worshipping magic his own mother had long been railing against was real, and Graves was apparently a practitioner. He wasn’t hyperventilating yet, but Graves figured it was just a matter of time. On impulse, he reached out and grabbed both of Credence’s hands where they lay in his lap, tangling fretfully with one another as Credence absorbed Graves’ words. At the first touch of Graves’ hands, Credence froze.

Not wanting to startle the boy more, Graves squeezed his hands firmly, calmingly, he hoped. “That might sound crazy, but you should know something. This is your world now, too. As a matter of fact, I have a suspicion that this has been your world all along.”

At that, Credence glanced up. He met Graves’ in the eye, and Graves was struck by his dark irises. It gave the sensation of a bottomless pool where his pupils should be. He was watching Graves, mouth slightly open. He looked awed.

“I’m a wizard, and I think you might be too. You’re special, Credence. I want to teach you about your power.” He realized as he spoke that he was telling the truth, that the longer he touched Credence directly, the clearer the existence of his magic was. It seemed to be tethered somewhere, hiding, perhaps protecting itself from the life Credence had been trapped in, but Graves could still feel it, clear as anything, just under the surface. And beyond that there was something else within Credence, something that pulled Graves forward, something strong and complex, just waiting to burst forth, like it wanted out. It was intoxicating. For a moment, Graves had the crazy thought that he never wanted to stop touching Credence and lose the connection to that power.

Being bonded to the boy would be unlike anything else in the world, Graves was sure. For the first time, he thought of the prospect of bonding with anticipation.

“I’m,” Credence said, then paused. He seemed to pick his words carefully. “I’m a wiz—” he swallowed, “special?”

“You are.” As Graves said it again, he was no longer surprised by how true it felt. Credence was special. And he was Graves’, now.

 

* * *

 

It was the largest house Credence had ever been inside in his life. It was possibly the largest house in the world, or at least America. Definitely in the state. Possibly.

He’d never been outside the city, so it was hard to accurately gauge.

Mr. Graves was still holding one of Credence’s hands, which he appreciated. Credence couldn’t help craning his head to stare at the impossibly high ceilings, and as such kept slightly overbalancing until Graves pulled him straight again with a light tug. 

Something about the house felt unusual. Credence kept catching movements out of the corner of his eye, but when he glanced fully he saw only motionless paintings, rows upon rows of solemn, serious Graves ancestors lining the hall. Ma and the girls followed closely behind. Credence could fairly feel Ma’s disapproving glare on his hand where Mr. Graves held it, but she didn’t comment.

Her easy acceptance of Mr. Graves’ shocking pronouncement repeated itself in Credence’s head. It was almost more stunning than Graves declaring himself a wizard in the first place. She hadn’t seemed surprised, so much as annoyed that the obvious needed to be stated so plainly. She’d always made Credence feel like a foreigner, slow and out of touch with the internal custom of their family, but now he wondered if it wasn’t reversed, and she had been the outsider all along.

He wondered if he’d ever really known her at all. 

The maid who had let them into the house trailed along behind, and there was something about her that seemed odd, although neither Ma nor the girls seemed to see it.

Perhaps it had to do with what Mr. Graves had said. Maybe Credence really was...special.

The mere thought was so outrageous and self-indulgent that Credence felt a horrid blush rush across his face and neck, and by the time he calmed himself down they had arrived at the door to some sort of study. 

Mr. Graves gave Credence’s hand a squeeze. “Gird your loins,” he murmured, quirking a smile, and Credence caught himself smiling helplessly back. Something about Mr. Graves’ careless confidence must be catching; Credence felt his own spine straighten.

Mr. Graves threw a glance behind him, and all friendliness fell away. “Behave yourself in there. My father is much less accommodating to upstart No-Majs.”

Ma sputtered in outrage. “Do not call me such a filthy word.” Credence was further startled that she was familiar enough with the term to be offended.

Mr. Graves turned his back on her dismissively. “You’re in my house. I’ll call you what I wish.” And with that triumphant set down, Mr. Graves pushed open the door and strode inside, propelling Credence along beside him, Ma and the girls hurrying along behind with a whisper of their worn leather shoes on the floor.

The study inside was stern and understated, draped in deep reds and grays, and it seemed _disapproving,_ somehow, if it was possible for a room to be disapproving.

Most definitely the man behind the heavy stone desk at the corner of the room reflected that sentiment and appeared taken aback besides.

Credence found himself clutching at Mr. Graves’ with both hands, everything in the room suddenly feeling far too big and overwhelming, especially the man at the desk. 

“Father,” Mr. Graves called out, coming to a stop at a respectful distance before the desk, “I’ve chosen a partner for the bonding ceremony.” 

The older man raised both eyebrows. He looked remarkably different than Mr. Graves, although they had the same dark, shrewd eyes. He set down the long fluffy quill in his hand and stood up. He was a broad-chested man, sturdy where Mr. Graves was lithe.

“I cannot hide that I’m rather surprised you made a decision so quickly,” the man said. He looked at Credence, and Credence immediately looked away, painfully aware of how short his trousers were on his gangly legs, and the bruise coloring sharply beneath his collar, and his rough, uneven haircut. He suspected the man’s entire suit was made of silk. Sometimes Credence had to walk on the sides of his feet because his boots were a half size too small and made the arches of his feet throb unbearably. He felt hopelessly ashamed.

The man didn’t seem to notice any of his failings, however, or at least didn’t appear to be fixated on them. He studied Credence with a bemused air until finally, he exhaled on a huff. “Well. Hello, there. I am Silas.”

There was a pause, and Credence remembered his voice just as Mr. Graves pulled on their joined hands. “I am Credence. Sir.” 

“That is an unusual name,” Silas said thoughtfully. 

“It signifies the acceptance and belief of a wrathful God, and is anything but unusual,” Ma said sharply.

Credence had almost forgotten she stood behind him. For all that up until this point she had menaced over his life like a terrible phantom, she seemed small in this house. She certainly seemed small next to Mr. Graves, and now Silas.

Silas eyed her. “My apologies. Who might you be?”

“I am Mary Lou Barebone, Credence’s mother.”

“Adopted mother,” Mr. Graves corrected, and although it was horribly rude, it made Credence bite at the inside of his lip to keep from smiling. Mother hated when anyone but she mentioned the circumstances of his birth, when it could be used as ammunition during a beating or a punishment. It was her secret weapon.

Now, it reduced her to bluster. “I _beg_  your pardon.”

Silas, unruffled, looked past her, down lower, and Credence followed his gaze to see Modesty and Chastity standing just behind Ma, staring wide-eyed all around them. “You must be Credence’s relations as well, I imagine.” 

“We’re his sisters,” Modesty offered, just as Chastity exclaimed in horrified fascination, as though she could hold within no longer, “Are _you_ a wizard, too?”

Silas looked at Graves. “My son,” he said carefully, somewhat dangerously, “I’m sure there was a good reason you have brought an entire family of non-magical beings into our house. No less one you claim you plan to bond with.”

“Credence isn’t non-magical,” Mr. Graves said breezily. It still felt like a near-untruth to Credence, but he remembered Mr. Graves’ instructions and held his peace. “I brought his guardian with to discuss a marriage price, however.”

The word “marriage” sent a jolt through Credence, indicating for the first time the true nature of what Mr. Graves may have in store for him, what the reference to some sort of bon might mean. It made him anxious, but not apprehensive. Anything was better than life with Ma, or his certain poverty if he struck out on his own. It also didn't hurt that Credence could not stop stealing glances at Mr. Graves, and that the press of his hands to Credence made him feel rooted to the ground.

Silas appeared to hold a silent, albeit critical, conversation with his son.

“What a contrary man you are,” Silas said finally, apparently in understanding. He turned to Credence. “I feel as though we should sit down and discuss in further detail why my son has brought you here today, and what he is asking of you.” 

Credence found himself nodding emphatically until he realized what a fool he must look like and abruptly ceased the motion.

“Before we do that, I suppose we must reach a settlement with you, ma’am.” He gestured for Ma to come forward, and she did, radiating condemnation with every step. “I must say, you seem familiar. Have we met before?”

Ma sniffed. “Certainly not.” It would seem that was _that_ , thank you very much, but then, grudgingly—“You may have met my sister. A twin.” 

Credence had never heard of Ma having a sister, much less a twin.

“Perhaps that is it,” Silas said, then added meaningfully, “and perhaps that is why you do not seem uncomfortable with these proceedings or the unusual nature of our household.” 

“I am deeply uncomfortable, sir. Your existence, and that of your horrendous community is in direct violation of God’s natural laws.” 

Mr. Graves interjected, annoyed, “Let’s not play coy, Mrs. Barebone. I think we all know my father meant you don’t seem _unfamiliar_ with magic.”

Credence waited for Ma to explode in unchecked fury, or at the very least give both men the sort of tongue-lashing she usually reserved for children especially deserving of punishment. He was surprised when she did neither.

“This man appeared out of nowhere and offered to buy Credence, and since the boy has been nothing but a burden since the day he was born, I would give him in exchange for resources to help run our ministry more efficiently. Speaking to you here as equals pains me, as a God-fearing woman with Christian morals, but I’m willing to treat with you if it means more money to spread our word, and end your immoral presence on this earth.”

It was quite a blistering pronouncement, even for Ma. Beside Credence he felt Mr. Graves tense, from disbelief or anger, Credence couldn’t be sure. Silas did not look pleased, but he was resigned. 

“In that case, let us begin.” Silas crossed clasped his hands behind his back. “Do you have any concerns that my son is a man? I know non-magical people often have more rigid ideals about matrimony.”

Ma smiled, a cold and horrible thing. “You are all unnatural in every way. What is an extra bit of sodomy in the face of absolute abomination?” She turned just slightly to level Credence with a mean smile. 

Credence couldn’t help but flinch. He’d always thought she suspected there was something wrong with him. Maybe she’d always been using it as an excuse to whip or beat or otherwise torture him when his actual behavior provided no ready excuse.

“There is no need for coarse language,” Silas said disapprovingly. He pulled out what looked like a scroll of expensive-looking cream paper. “For an individual under the legal age of twenty, the traditional wedding price is—”

“I’m twenty-two.” Credence bit his bottom lip. He hadn’t meant to interrupt. Mr. Graves had told him specifically to hold his tongue.

“What?” Mr. Graves looked at him in surprise. “No, you’re not.”

Credence blinked. “I am. I’m twenty-two.” He looked at Mr. Graves, curious. He knew his skinniness and tendency toward bashfulness aged him down, but surely Mr. Graves hadn’t thought he was yet in his teens. “How old did you think I was?”

“I don’t—you’re very. I had no idea you were twenty-two.” Mr. Graves look discomfited. It was strangely becoming on such an otherwise self-assured face. 

For his part, Silas looked deeply relieved. He tossed the scroll onto the desk. “This boy is of age?” He shook his head in consternation. “Then why in the name of Merlin's beard are we holding court with this vile woman?” He took out his wand, holding it loosely in one hand as he approached Ma. “Away with you, then.”

“How dare you, this is fraudulent, you cannot just take—”

But Silas would have none of it. “Off of this estate at once. You’ll all be Obliviated by Prudentia at the gate. Good day.”

Credence instinctively reacted, reaching out. “Ma—”

She raised her chin, giving her son the cut direct with ease. “You are an ignorant fool, and whatever befalls you here is no less than you deserve,” Ma told Credence harshly. He recoiled, leaning away from the disgust on her face. 

The servant, Prudentia, who was fast beginning to resemble some sort of goblin as though her face was melting to assume a different shape, moved to lead Ma and the girls out, immune to the furious puce Ma’s face was turning.

“What does ‘Obvliated’ mean?” Credence asked Mr. Graves in a hush, feeling panicked. “What is she going to do to them?”

“Credence, we survive through secrecy." Mr. Graves looked apologetic, but his voice was firm. "All witches and wizards, we depend on keeping our community underground and invisible to No-Majs. We can’t let anyone leave with their memories intact. We will need to take all memories of today, and if possible, of your very existence, from their heads.”

“You’re going to take their memories?”

“It won’t hurt,” Mr. Graves assured him. “Prudentia is skilled at spellwork.”

Panicked, Credence turned back toward Modesty and Chastity. Both girls were watching him wretchedly, Modesty’s eyes already overflowing.

“Goodbye, Credence,” she whispered.

“Be a good Christian,” Chastity volunteered. Her voice cracked on the last syllable.

His sisters had been the locus of his life for nearly all of his memory. When Ma had adopted first Modesty, then Chastity a few years later, Credence had no longer been alone. He’d had a family, a real family, not just Ma who resented and hurt him in equal measure. He had two little people who knew the drudgery and the indignity of belonging to Ma, and more than that, he had two little people he was sworn to protect.

The thought of being erased from their memories, or of them not being able to remember why Credence had left, that he hadn’t wanted to leave them—it was too much to bear.

“Wait,” Credence stammered, “wait, you can’t—”

A strong hand touched his shoulder and Credence jerked, looking up to see Silas beside him. “You need to let them go, my boy.” Silas gestured with his chin at Ma. “That one is a viper. She’ll use whatever she can to wring the life from you. It appears she’s already half-succeeded.”

But that meant sacrificing his sisters for himself, and Credence couldn’t imagine such a thing. He turned to Mr. Graves, eyes pleading. Mr. Graves studied him for a moment and sighed. He brought his free hand up to cup Credence’s cheek. If Credence hadn’t been so distraught, he would have pushed into the contact like a housecat. Mr. Graves’ hand was so big, and so warm. Credence couldn’t remember when or if anyone had ever touched his face with such gentleness.

“My, but you are a complicated little bird, aren’t you?” Mr. Graves stepped away with a long-suffering nod.

Silas huffed. “Percival, don’t be ridiculous—”

But Mr. Graves approached Ma without hesitation. “If you allow Credence to maintain contact with his sisters, I’ll pay for the feeding of your orphan hordes, and you can divert the funds you’d otherwise use to feed them into other operations of your ministry.”

“I see your morals are for sale so long as it pleases your whore,” Ma said quietly, sounding triumphant.

“You dare speak of your son that way?” Mr. Graves demanded, his tone frightening in its fervor.

“He is not my son,” Ma snapped. “I tried to raise him up above his horrid, unnatural beginnings, but blood will tell in the end, as they say. And here we are.” She gestured rudely at the tasteful wealth surrounding them.

Credence wished the words could wash over him like water, leaving no mark behind, but they stuck in his ribs and pained him anyway even though he’d always suspected that Ma had never seen him as more than an outlet for her anger or, failing that, a burden. Even having known the truth it hurt to hear it confirmed so carelessly.

It seemed to take great effort for Mr. Graves to restrain himself from violence. For his part, Credence moved to grab his hand again, knowing that if it came to it he would be little able to hold Mr. Graves back physically. But it seemed to ground him; Mr. Graves took a breath and settled back on his heels.

“The only reason you’re leaving this estate with your memories intact is in deference to my future bond mate. Nothing would please me more than to scramble your brains until you could no longer form words or feed yourself. If Credence’s arrangement with the girls falls through, or you otherwise threaten the magical world's right to secrecy, I will relish the opportunity to make mincemeat of your mind. Do not test me.”

He jerked his chin at the goblin-servant, who clapped her hands, and with a start, Ma and the girls were marching in measured, powerless unison out of the study and down the hall. At the doorway, Modesty turned to wave forlornly at Credence before her feet carried her away with a mind of their own.

“Goodbye,” Credence whispered. He wasn’t sure his sister heard him. Regardless, the next moment they were all gone.

The study fell into silence as Mr. Graves led Credence to one of the chairs at the desk, and Credence sat numbly, Ma’s hateful words and his sisters’ desolate faces swimming uncomfortably in his mind.

Silas took his seat behind the desk once more, studying Mr. Graves and Credence is exasperation. “So much upheaval for a simple Wednesday morning,” he said, shaking his head. “Percival, shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I took a personal day.” Mr. Graves stretched his legs out, laying quite casually in the heavy leather chair. “Might as well get the bonding done with, so I can get back to it. Perhaps this evening?”

Credence didn’t take offense at his impatience. Now that his family was gone, he felt at sea. Better to get on with whatever this bonding was, so he could begin learning about this strange new world he’d somehow gained entry to, with its many unpredictable and astonishing and uncertain rules, so at the very least he wouldn’t be a burden once more to Mr. Graves.

He could only hope he was equal to the task.

 

* * *

 

Credence appeared to take much of the conversation with Graves’ father in stride, although Graves wasn’t sure that was necessarily a good sign.

Silas gave a general overview of the bonding ceremony, and the effects of the bond, and every time he said the words “magic” or “wizard” or “nameline," Credence seemed to creep further into himself. Graves worried that any more new information about the wizarding world would send Credence into a coma of some sort.

He wanted to take him somewhere quiet, maybe to Graves’ old quarters in the east wing, someplace that Credence could absorb what had happened and maybe take a more substantial nap. And eat a few sandwiches. Graves wondered if Prudentia could whip up some of her comforting potato soup.

“I saw him watching Ma and the girls and me as we were ministering to the public.”

Credence’s words startled Mr. Graves from his meal-planning, and it took him a moment to retrace the conversation. Silas had asked where they had met. And Credence had said—“You mean to say, you could see me?"

Credence turned to blink his wide, heavily-lashed eyes at him in puzzlement. “Of course I did. You watched us nearly every day.”

“Nearly every day?” Graves looked away, avoiding his father’s avid gaze. “It was hardly every day. And my Invisibility spell is impenetrable, how could you have bested it?” 

“Well, he is magical,” Silas couldn’t help but butt in. Graves gave him a look, but his father went on cheerfully, “I can feel it from here. It seems all he was lacking was some training. Perfect match for a bonding, really. All that untapped, natural power.”

Graves supposed so. He could think of only a handful of witches and wizards who could repudiate a defensive spell, let alone without a wand or formal training. As he looked at Credence, who had shifted to gaze intently at the bond contract Silas had laid before him, Graves was beginning to wonder just who his future bondmate was.

His father was still talking. “Now, my boy, do you want to take time to think it over? We have six days until Percival’s deadline.” 

Credence didn’t seem to hear him. He looked sideways at Graves, as though an unpleasant thought had struck. “Why haven’t you bonded with anyone before?” He was worrying the cuff of his shirtsleeves, picking at a loose thread. Fidgeting.

Graves covered the restless hand and Credence stilled. It was like its own type of magic, how effectively such a simple touch could calm him.

“Never mind that now,” Graves said quietly. He heard his father rise and move to a far shelf, ostensibly to pick up a reference book on bonding contracts, but more likely to give the two of them a semblance of privacy. He was still furious his father had put him in this position in the first place, but he could admit the old man had tact. “I’m asking you to join with the Graves name. I’m asking you to let me protect you with the power of my nameline. To let me help you learn to harness your magic, and control it, and use it. To take your rightful place in the wizarding world.”

As far as proposals went, Graves was pretty proud of himself. He was glad the uncouth exclamation on the street corner would not forever define his bond-proposing prowess, at least.

A delicate line appeared between Credence’s dark brows. He seemed deep in thought. Then he leaned forward, and to Graves’ surprise, pressed the side of his face to Graves’ chest, wilting slightly.

“I don’t know what I’m doing,” Credence whispered into the fabric of Graves’ shirt as though confessing a terrible secret. “I don’t know how to be a good bondmate to you.” He tangled his fingers in the fabric by his face. “You’ll need to tell me how. Tell me how to be good for you.”

The request sent an unexpected, and not entirely unwelcome, curl of heat curling through Graves’ gut. He went still, surprised at himself.

Of all the things he expected to feel on the eve of his bonding, this sudden awareness was far from anticipated. 

He still found himself wrapping an arm around Credence’s narrow back and pulling him in. Credence shivered a little, relishing the closeness, so Graves held him tighter, increasing the pressure until Credence went limp with a sigh.

“I promise to do my best,” he said into the soft hair on the crown of Credence’s head.

He hoped he could keep that promise. It would have to be enough.

 

* * *

 

Credence was shocked at the simplicity of the bonding ceremony.

Silas had asked several times whether Credence was sure, and all he had to do was think of the way Graves had pulled him to his chest and let him rest there, guarding him until Credence could catch his breath again, to know he was ready now. 

He would risk a lot of uncertainty and nerves for the possibility of being held like that again in the future, but he would jump completely without looking if it meant being held exclusively by Graves himself.

He’d declined the extra days to think it over, and so after Graves insisted on breaking for a lunch of creamy potato soup and crusty rolls (and looking unsatisfied when Credence refused a third helping from Prudentia, who was apparently a house elf and had shifted into her original form now that Ma and the girls were gone), they’d descended to the basement of the house, where the covenant of Graves names was kept.

It was a thick, dusty tome, nearly a foot thick. Credence could only watch in awe as Silas flipped through the pages methodically, unable to imagine being part of such a lineage, of being able to trace back so many members of your own family you needed a book to keep them organized.

Credence was going to be a part of this, he realized in swift clarity. He was going to be a Graves. This nameline would be his.

He felt giddy at the thought and tried to hide his small smile in order to look suitably serious for the ceremony. He only half-succeeded, as Graves peered over at him in interest. “Are you ready?” he asked. He sounded almost anxious, which paradoxically calmed Credence down, slightly.

Credence could only nod, perhaps a tad enthusiastically. But Graves did not ask again, and they turned to face Silas where he stood over the covenant.

He still startled to see Graves holding a wand, and Silas pulling out his own, the two men reciting a short, simple rhyme together, until Graves touched his wand to his heart, and then to Credence’s, and the whole room began to hum. 

Graves intoned solemnly, “Our nameline is strength, and we give strength to our nameline.”

Silas replied, “Do you accept the strength of the nameline, and agree to give your strength in return?”

They both turned to Credence, seeming to wait for an answer, but he didn't know what his line was supposed to be. Eventually he decided to guess, “I do?”

Silas smiled, and that was it.

Something deep in Credence seemed to stretch as though testing its boundaries. That must be magic, he realized. He could feel it. It wasn’t unlike the disorienting, all-encompassing fury that occasionally overtook him, as it had that very afternoon. But it also wasn’t quite as frightening. There was potential there, surely, but not quite the threat of explosion.

The strange, unstable power within him seemed to react to the Graves name with a certain begrudging respect, which Credence could appreciate.

Graves led the way up the darkened passageway, a hand pressed to the small of Credence’s back in a way that made his whole body feel hot. It also kept him from banging his knees on no more than a few sharp stone corners, which was also very nice.

He was surprised to see the sun had gone down completely, bathing the estate in the soft moonlight. Prudentia and a passel of similarly industrious house elves were walking up the hallway lighting lamps. When she saw Credence, Graves and Silas step out of the staircase, she darted forward.

“Prudentia will be taking you to your quarters, Master Credence,” she said, smiling widely. She seemed to be looking at Credence with new eyes, almost with pride.

“Oh, you don’t need to call me—just Credence is fine." 

Prudentia was not impressed. “Master Credence, if you’ll be following me,” she said sweetly, through politely gritted teeth.

Credence took the hint and followed meekly after her. He was surprised when Graves did not join him. He tried not to look too bereft as he turned back. “You’re not coming?”

“I’ll be up shortly,” Graves assured him. He gestured to Silas. “Just a few items to wrap up with my father.” With a smile, he nodded at Prudentia as she led the way. “You shouldn’t make her wait, Pru can be a hard taskmaster.”

“Only if Master Percival is getting into Prudentia’s way,” the house elf chimed in cheerily over her shoulder without slowing as she took the sweeping grand staircase three steps at a time. Credence had to pick up the pace to keep with her.

The more of the estate Credence saw, the more like a lost street urchin he felt, but he did his best to ignore the stubborn burn of inadequacy. He was a Graves now, after all. He could still feel the latent power of the nameline acquainting itself with his circuitry, the slight electricity that made the hair on his arms stand up.

He was something more now. Something powerful, or at least more powerful than he’d been before.

Of course the bedroom Prudentia led him to was roughly the size of the entire church where Ma and the girls and Credence had been living for the past six months.

As Credence gawked, Prudentia laid out a nightshirt, one that looked incredibly delicate and soft and entirely too transparent for Credence’s immediate comfort, but the house elf didn’t look open to arguments.

“Prudentia thought Master Credence might not have too many clothes of his own yet,” she was saying, “and the first night of a bond is important. Master Credence will be needing something special for that. For the Master Percival.” 

Credence quite literally didn’t have a word in his head in response to that.

He knew, distantly, what Prudential was implying, and he’d become more and more aware throughout the day that marital intimacy was most likely going to be a central component of his bond with Mr. Graves. The contract Silas had given him had contained dense, archaic language, but even Credence had been able to parse the sections that discussed nameline power, and the “joining of the bond, carnal and otherwise” that apparently contributed power to the name itself, cementing the bond and strengthening the power of the witches and wizards it protected in turn.

Ma had certainly taken no pains to explain intimate relations to Credence beyond the basics of sin and uncleanliness and eternal hellfire, and Credence himself had done his best to avoid touching himself in any way that might draw Ma’s wrath if she discovered his perversity.

And yet here he was, being gifted a revealing nightshirt by a house elf, who gave Credence a rather saucy wink before bowing her way out of the door.

The room had been lit with a series of delicate candles along the perimeter, a sedate fire crackled comfortably in the grate. The bed looked incredibly soft, and for a wild moment Credence wondered what would happen if he merely crawled in and fell asleep, and let the overwhelming responsibility of a bonding night keep until tomorrow.

But he thought of Mr. Graves and the way he had offered to rescue Credence without hesitation, when surely any other regular person would have turned away and let Ma do what she wished to him. Unquestionably many had done the same in the past, and yet Mr. Graves had been different. 

The least Credence could do was contribute what he was able to the strengthening of the bond, and in turn the nameline. He wanted to deserve the name of Graves. 

And that apparently began with putting on an entirely indecent nightshirt.

He had just begun struggling with the slippery silken ties at the front when he heard the door open behind him. He spun around, and sighed in relief to see it was only Mr. Graves. Mr. Graves, who he was supposed to entertain in some way. He didn’t feel quite so relieved, then.

For his part, Mr. Graves appeared shocked into silence. Still, Credence didn’t miss the way his eyes darted swiftly over the shape of the nightshirt, and Credence dared to think—perhaps over the shape of _him_ , of _Credence_. Maybe Mr. Graves was attracted to him, in some small way that would make their eventual coupling less of a chore.

Lord, he hoped it was not too much of a chore for Mr. Graves.

Credence had no idea what seduction might look like, or what pose was most appealing to a bridegroom on his wedding night, so he went on instinct.

“Credence,” Mr. Graves said, and then seemed to trail off as Credence gamely continued to try and present an alluring front.

He crawled on his knees up the bed, and kind of flopped to the side, the insubstantial dressing gown gaping at the movement to expose his bony chest. He lay on his back against the pillows, hands in fists at his sides, and attempted to will his body to relax. 

Graves was still frozen in the doorway, gripping the handle as though he had forgotten he’d left it there. He was watching Credence with something like increasing alarm, but Credence tried not to lose his courage.

“You may take me as you wish, Mr. Graves.” He had no idea why his voice sounded so breathy. He swallowed. “I mean, you can have my body,” he said, just so there was no confusion.

Even in the ringing silence, he couldn’t quite hear the words Mr. Graves bit out under his breath. What he could make out, he was sure he’d misheard. It sounded something like, but could not actually be:

“Merlin’s literal _tits_.”

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ETA: also I made important artwork to accompany this chapter 
> 
>  


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> important writer's note: when I'm plotting out a story I always put a placeholder for sex scenes by writing BONETOWN in all caps, so that's a fun fact about me.

* * *

 

A year ago, Graves had been the lead investigator on a mission to disarm a group of Scourers that had been terrifying a small farming town near the Mississippi River. One of the Scourers had attempted to blast Graves with a killing curse, and the split second when the dark magic had skittered just past Graves’ body, missing him by mere inches, had felt like his soul leaving his body. He’d been beyond terror, beyond panic, detached from his surroundings as though observing them from afar. 

It had been discomfiting, and disorienting, and Graves had hated feeling so out of his depth.

Walking in on Credence laid out on the bed in a slinky sleeping get up that was no doubt Prudentia’s fault, pale and quivering, dark eyes wide and unsure and unfortunately alluring, was the closest to a flashback to that moment he’d ever had.

“Mr. Graves?” he said uncertainly when Graves had failed to come up with a response in the intervening moments of silence.

Graves had never really stopped to catalogue Credence’s appearance so thoroughly before. He'd always intrigued Graves, but largely out of curiosity. But now he could clearly see how the boy—the _man_ , Graves corrected himself, the young man—had skin as pale as milk. It curved tightly over bone and sinew, his broad, curved shoulders, his narrow, knobby wrists sharp and obvious even under the ruffle of the night short, and though none of these characteristics individually had ever been to Graves’ tastes before, collectively they created a picture that was quite—elegant. Striking. 

A becoming flush was creeping up from under Credence’s collar, coloring his neck and chest. “Are you not—do you not—”

The shy discomfort in Credence’s voice made something painful twist in response within Graves. He squeezed his eyes shut, forcefully severing the moment before he did something terrible like keep standing there gaping like an idiot at Credence for the rest of time until the house fell down around them and they both died. “Credence. I’m not going to ravish you this evening.”

Across the room, Credence made a soft sound of distress. When Graves opened his eyes he saw Credence drawing his knees to his chest, the picture of mortification. 

“I’m so sorry,” he said, “I didn’t mean to—presume, it was only, the contract, it specifically indicated that I should, that _we_ should.” He bit his lip, abjectly miserable.

Without any conscious thought, Graves found himself hurrying to the bedside. “No, stop that, enough of that,” he murmured mindlessly. Credence was curling in to make himself as small as possible. Like a magnet (like a _bondmate_ , his mind supplied quietly), he was helpless to do anything but wrap his arms around Credence and pull in. Bringing his knee up, he settled Credence more or less against his hip.

“There’s nothing we _should_ be doing tonight, or any other night,” Graves said quietly. “A bond is nothing so regimented as a traditional marriage. The bond adapts its shape to the needs of our magic, not the other way around.”

“Oh,” Credence said after a moment. He sounded oddly let down. It made Graves feel a little bit crazy.

He was warm in Graves’ arms. They were nearly of a height, but Credence’s slender frame made him feel almost hollow against Graves’ own heft, muscles gained through fieldwork and chasing down criminal witches and wizards. He found that he rather liked the contrast. 

He’d never been much for tender moments in the past. He was never a boor, but he also preferred not to waste time. A satisfying carnal release for both him and his partner, a cordial farewell, and on to the next moment. He wasn’t quite sure what it was about Credence that made him want to linger. 

As he’d parted ways with Credence earlier, his father had seemed similarly unsettled by Graves and his intentions toward his new bondmate.

“I hope you have plans to treat that boy well,” Silas said. He looked at Graves like he wasn’t quite sure he understood his own son, and Graves couldn’t quite blame him. More and more, he felt the day had gotten away from him. Somehow, he’d woken up this morning with no idea that by day’s end he’d be bonded to a poor, obedient orphan raised by a pious lunatic. 

“I have no plans to treat him ill,” Graves hedged. He glanced at the stairway where Credence had disappeared after Prudentia. Oddly, Graves felt unsettled with him out of sight. He found himself wishing to join him, to ensure Credence wasn’t unnerved or unsure or afraid. 

He’d never felt so responsible for another person before. 

“You will need to do better than that,” Silas replied. “Young Credence has given you a great gift today. See that you do your best to be worthy of it.”

Graves had stifled at the scolding, but with Credence now huddled in his arms, he felt the weight of his father’s words. He could feel his magic responding to the calling, singing at the contact with whatever magic already resided in Credence.

He knew enough about the bond not to expect any dramatic changes right away. The point of a nameline was that it grew in strength over time, weaving and fortifying until both magical beings would double, sometimes triple their magical strength. 

Graves moved to leave the bed. “I’ll leave you here, and there’s a daybed in the closet that will be more than comfortable for me.”

Credence reared up, resisting Graves’ movement. “Wait.”

“What is it?”

“Could you please stay here with me?” Credence bowed his head, as though ashamed at his own presumption. Graves frowned. That wouldn’t do.

“Of course, my darling,” he said easily. Credence didn’t meet his gaze, but the tension in his body relaxed immediately.

Relatively sure that Credence was watching out of the corner of his eye, Graves removed his vest and his shirt underneath. He normally slept in next to nothing, but he didn’t want to shock Credence unduly, not after the day he’d had already. He shuffled out of his trousers but kept his undershorts on. He noted the high flush on Credence’s cheekbones but did not comment.

More or less undressed, he slid into the bed beside Credence. He flicked a hand and the candles went out, the fire politely banking itself so the room could fall into a comfortable darkness. 

Gingerly, he placed a hand on Credence’s hip. He’d rolled on his side, back to Graves, every line tense. 

Wordlessly, Credence pressed back against him. Graves scooted closer, and with one last pause to divine what exactly Credence wanted, he wrapped an arm around him, fitting them snugly together. He dragged his hand up and down Credence's arm, intending to chastely soothe only, but when Credence made a bitten off sound, Graves ran his hand in a broader circuit.

He pressed closer and looped his right arm under Credence’s body so he could hold him more firmly. Credence shuddered. “Is this alright?”

Credence nodded jerkily, his shorn nape brushing against Graves’ nose.

He was aware that he was more or less rubbing Credence down like a horse. It was far from his usual moves in the bedroom, this painstaking smoothing of hands over a bed partner’s entire body without a clear objective, just to provide the other person with comfort. He found himself surprisingly eager regardless, skimming his hand over every nook and cranny like an explorer discovering unmapped territory.

“No one touches me like you do,” Credence whispered into the dark.

Graves silently amended that to mean that people didn’t touch Credence at all, unless it was in anger or carelessness. He was starved for touch in general, not for Graves in particular, and Graves told himself he would do well to remember that distinction, even as it annoyed him to acknowledge it.

He kept running his hands up and down over Credence’s sides, his shoulders, his hips, around to the concave sweep of his belly. Credence seemed to prefer a firm touch to a tickling tease, so Graves kept the pressure of his hands heavy, quietly relishing the way Credence seemed to arch and press into his touch.

When Graves’ palmed traveled up his sternum and around the curve of his throat, his thumb catching on the tender underside of his jaw, Credence made a strangled sound in his throat. Graves paused. “Ticklish?” 

“No—um. Just. Please keep going.”

“We don’t have to,” Graves began, breathless, surprised at his own breathlessness, unable to stop the movement of his hands where they ran steadily down Credence’s hips, to his flanks, over and over, and until he found himself making a strange growling noise and grabbing Credence by the left knee, bending his leg up so their bodies curled more closely together. 

They both groaned in unison as Credence's ass pressed against Graves' hardening cock, Credence arching in apparent surprise, but pressing back eagerly into Graves as much as this new position provided.

“We don’t have to,” Graves said again, losing his train of thought, not sure what exactly he was able to get across. He was losing control in the oddest way.

He pressed his open mouth to the side of Credence’s neck, dragging his teeth just barely along the skin. He tasted like sweat and magic and a simple, earnest needing that made Graves press his teeth slightly harder, his right arm pulling Credence more securely against his chest.

Credence gasped, head kicking back reflexively on Graves’ shoulder. He didn’t say a word but reached back to grip fiercely at Graves’ hair, pulling him tighter.

“Fucking hell,” Graves muttered as though bespelled, No-Maj curse words floating nonsensically to mind, earthy and unfamiliar on his tongue. He rolled his hip over so he was blanketing Credence’s body with his own, face to face.

“Mr. Graves,” Credence bit out. His hands found Graves’ shoulders as he settled under him, his knees widening as if on instinct to accommodate Graves’ body between his legs. He was intent on pulling Graves down upon him, demanding his full weight, struggling slightly when Graves pulled back, Graves not wanting to smother him, Credence not seeming to care.

From this angle, he could stare Credence in the face. His eyes were black in the shadowy room, but they seemed to glow with the darkness, his mouth open and panting, a beautiful heavy pulse beating wildly on the side of his neck. Graves brought his thumb to the corner of Credence’s mouth, panting a little himself at the sight of his broad thumb sweeping the corner, and then gasping as Credence’s sucked on the tip, staring straight at Graves.

His entire body aching, Graves swooped down to capture Credence’s mouth with his own.

It was a wild kiss, and Graves only felt slightly in control of it. Credence kept making these noises, helpless little grunts and sighs, lifting his head off the pillow to chase at Graves’ mouth as though he was worried Graves would move away, as if he would even have the capability. He squirmed closer, knees locking tight on Graves hips, the press of his cock through the thin nightshirt like a searing brand.

Graves brought both hands up to hold Credence’s damn mouth still, so he could plunge his tongue in, keep him where he wanted and just _take._ Credence froze, then seemed to go wild, his hands going everywhere, sharp teeth catching on Graves’ mouth. Willing to oblige, Graves made to shift so Credence could slide on top and take control, but Credence made a high sound in his throat and pulled him down, like the threat of losing Graves’ weight upon him was too much to bear. 

Graves couldn’t stop kissing him. He slid his mouth down his neck or under his jaw, but found himself drawn back inexorably to that red mouth that kept moaning and sighing and murmuring words Graves couldn’t quite hear over the pounding of his own blood. He struggled out of his underclothes, and taking the hint, Credence yanked desperately at his nightshirt, nearly ripping the fabric before Graves could help get rid of thing, and then Credence was laid bare before him. 

He pulled away to catch his breath. “Good Merlin, you’re beautiful,” he breathed out, like a lunatic, but he couldn’t help it. He ground his hips down, connecting with Credence in a way that felt inevitable. He tucked his face into Credence’s neck, soaking up the way Credence sucked in a sharp breath, overwhelmed. 

Graves ground down again, and again, making sure to hold Credence tight the entire time, cradling his body to his so that he could adjust him as he needed, finding the perfect angle to rub their cocks together. “Is that good,” he growled into Credence’s neck, “is it, tell me, my darling, is it good.”

Credence squeaked, his back arching so powerfully it pressed them both up from the bed. Graves drew back to look at him, to watch the way his face froze, his eyes and mouth open in a wide silent scream as he came between them.

It didn’t take long for Graves to follow. He reached down to give his own cock a few rough jerks, grunting as he spent across Credence’s pale, soft belly. 

“Good lord in heaven,” Credence said when he finally appeared to catch his breath. He lay supine as Graves fell to his side, their legs still tangled together. “I had no idea it was. So. Good _lord_ in heaven.” 

“You’ve never found pleasure before?”

“Pleasure is the devil’s work,” Credence slurred. He sounded almost playful, repeating words that were surely a mantra of his childhood. It made something in Graves' chest ache.

“Next time I’ll touch you here more,” Graves promised. He rubbed his hand through the release on Credence’s stomach, brushing just lightly against his spent cock, making Credence jerk.

“You can touch me however you like.” Credence sounded like he was falling asleep. 

“Is that a promise?” Graves asked, his mouth pressed to the back of Credence’s shoulder.

Credence didn’t answer. Instead, there was a light, whistling snore.

Graves snorted, helplessly charmed. He arranged Credence on his side, wiping up their shared release with the ruined nightshirt before settling in behind him.

He wasn’t used to sleeping with another, but he could understand why Credence had asked for it in the first place. It was comforting.

He could feel their bond thrumming between like a live wire. It compelled him to curl close, to wrap himself tightly to Credence’s back. Even asleep, Credence sighed and pressed back against him, almost automatically. Almost like he had no choice. 

Abruptly, the hazy afterglow of pleasure dissipated. Graves wondered if everything that had just happened had been because of the bond, as well.

He stared up at the ceiling, wondering what else the bond would force Credence to do for him, and what else Graves would be compelled to ask for.

He did not fall asleep for hours, and when he did, it was to a fitful rest full of bleak nightmares of being powerless, and yet having power over someone with even less than he did.

 

* * *

 

When Credence woke up, he was alone, and the early morning light was just streaming in through the curtains.

At first, he had a terrifying thought that he had imagined the entire day before. Maybe he had just lost time again to the terrifying anger within him that sometimes took control. Maybe Mr. Graves had never been real.

But then he blinked and glanced around, taking in the rich furnishing of an unfamiliar room. The bed was sumptuously soft. More tellingly, there was a deep, compelling ache in his joints and hips, as though he’d spent nearly an hour writhing and flexing in controlled and unfamiliar passion. 

A delicious, mortifying heat ran over his body so suddenly it was like a fever. Credence felt a tremulous smile curve its way onto his face. 

He wondered if this was how Eve must have felt, committing such a wonderful, decadent sin she wouldn’t be able to help but do it again, over and over, never satisfied.

He was alone in the room, but as he lay there pondering, it was like he could feel a pull urging him to arise and continue downstairs. He knew without really knowing that he would find Mr. Graves if he followed it.

He wondered if this was what it meant to be bonded, to be part of the Graves nameline. If so, he relished it. 

He climbed out of bed and poked around the room before finding a small stack of clothes left pointedly on a stool near the wash bin, leftCredence assumed by Prudentia. He took care of his morning ablutions and slipped on the soft shirt and vest, then pulled on the trousers. They were soft and brand new and fit him as though they’d been magically sewn to fit his body alone, which he supposed probably they had been. At the very least, they were the nicest set of clothes he’d ever worn before.

“You’re very beautiful,” he told the soft felt vest, and it seemed to wriggle with delight, as though it could understand him, or at least the apparent magic within him.

He wandered into the hallway and was greeted by a painting of a group of men conferring over a herd of cows. The only thing was, the men were audibly whispering to each other, and the cows were sedately wandering across the frame.

Credence must have made some noise in shock, because one of the men in the picture turned to face him. “Oh, hello,” he said. He leered at Credence. “Didn’t expect you up so early.”

The other men in the painting sniggered, and Credence found himself frowning at them. “You should watch your tongue,” he said disapprovingly, and the men turned back to their cow conference. 

Credence continued down the hall, spotting more moving paintings. He suspected it was the most glorious thing he would ever see, until he stumbled upon the next magical thing that would be even more stunning. He couldn’t believe this was his life now. 

He wandered down the stairs with an odd, irrepressible smile on his lips, perhaps the first of its kind to ever grace his face.

Following the pull he’d felt earlier, he found his way to a dining room. On a sideboard lay perhaps the grandest feast Credence had ever laid eyes on. At the far end of the table, Mr. Graves was seated with a cup of coffee before him and a newspaper in one hand. He was dressed in a dapper brown suit. He set the newspaper down as Credence entered. 

“Good morning, Mr. Graves,” Credence ventured. His voice barely carried across the expanse of the dining table. He would need to take care to behave less like a mouse, he decided. He was a Graves now, and a wizard beside. He tried again. “Did you sleep well?” His voice only trembled slightly on the end, decidedly louder than before, so Credence took it as progress.

At his seat, Mr. Graves’ mouth curved up in amusement or at least some type of studied amusement. He seemed aloof. “I did indeed. And yourself? It was a busy day yesterday.” His mouth dropped into a smirk, even though the words were perfectly innocent, and Credence found himself blushing yet again.

“I did, sir.”

“I think you may begin calling me by my first name, Credence,” Mr. Graves said. “We are bonded, after all.” 

Credence thought of the way Mr. Graves had clutched him the night before, the delicious weight of his body anchoring Credence into the bed, the way he moved and jostled Credence with such propriety. 

“We are indeed, Mr. Graves,” Credence said faintly. At Mr. Graves’ raised eyebrow, he faltered. “I mean. Percival. Mr. Percival.”

“Percy is fine.”

Credence did his best not to wrinkle his nose. He did not care for such a flimsy name. It didn’t suit Mr. Graves, and he doubted he would ever be able to bring himself to use it, but he kept that detail to himself.

The smell of the food from the sideboard made his stomach gurgle terribly. Percival laughed lightly. “Please, serve yourself. I was just finishing, but I’ll sit with you.”

At first Credence was overwhelmed with choice at the sideboard. Eggs made fluffy with cream, crispy fried potatoes, thick slices of fried ham, a plate filled high with flapjacks, a jug of maple syrup steaming faintly, toast and jam and butter and honey and a host of other items Credence was too overwhelmed to catalog. He was sure he could eat himself sick and still barely make a dent in the food on offer. 

He picked up a plate, and started as the food began depositing itself on his plate unaided. 

Behind him, Percival laughed, but it was not unkind. He seemed charmed by Credence’s surprise, and so Credence stepped back and let the food fill itself. When his plate was filled to the brim, he took it to sit at Percival’s side.

He looked at the paper Percival had set aside, and blinked, nonplussed, to see that the pictures in there moved as well. 

“Never a dull moment in the magicking world, I’m afraid,” Percival said, noting what had drawn Credence’s attention. 

The room was quiet save for the soft sounds of Credence doing his best to eat without looking like too much of a glutton. It was difficult. For the most part, Percival politely ignored the ravenous way Credence attacked his breakfast, aside from a mild, “Is the food to your liking?”

“I’ve never eaten so well before,” Credence admitted.

“It’s one benefit of magic, and of house elfs like Prudentia,” Percival said with a shrug. “The food never runs out, if you don't mind the odd transfigured item now and again, and a skilled hand can produce whatever in the world you might have a taste for.”

Credence thought of the children that Ma was most likely feeding this very morning, in return for their help in distributing literature on the Second Salemer movement. Some of them came to the church fairly starving, their bellies swelling beneath rags of clothes. Credence himself had known hunger most of his childhood, even if that had been largely due to Ma’s pointed neglect.

“There are too many children who go hungry every night in the city. I wonder if there is a way for magic to help them.” Credence was merely wondering out loud, but Percival shook his head immediately.

“The Statute of Secrecy prohibits just such intervention, for the safety of the wizarding world. The injustices suffered by No-Maj children are not out concern.”

“That’s rather heartless,” Credence found himself saying. He was shocked at his boldness, but more shocked at the genuine frustration he felt with Percival's dismissiveness.

Percival leveled him with a frank stare, mouth twisted sardonically. “You do realize you aren’t a No-Maj? You never were. You’re a wizard, of wizarding stock.” 

“And do you realize that cruelty visited on children is wrong, regardless of whether those children happen to be magical? They’re still people, with their own inner souls, their own value. A wizard is not inherently more valuable by virtue of their magic.” Credence closed his mouth, stemming the tide of inappropriate, angry words. He felt out of breath. He also was aware that while he was not yet overly familiar with wizards in general, he was confident that what he'd said was true. He felt it.

Percival was watching him in surprise, as though a dog had come in, stood on its hind legs, and begun lecturing the dining room on ethics. It was mildly insulting.

“My god, you’re a liberal. A radical, even. My father will have a stroke.” He didn’t seem overly upset at the prospect, however, nor at the acknowledgment of Credence’s apparently left-wing ideals. 

“I’m sorry,” Credence said, although he wasn’t really, not for what he’d said. He was maybe sorry for arguing with Percival, just on principle. He didn’t want to fight, mere hours after finding such pleasure in his arms.

“Don’t be,” Percival said. He sighed, sitting back in his chair. To Credence’s surprised delight, Percival cupped the back of Credence’s neck, a thumb rubbing lightly at the corner of his jaw. The movement seemed to be mostly unconscious, but Credence couldn’t stop himself from falling still, mesmerized by the simple, careless touch. “I can’t imagine the disorientation of finding yourself in a completely new world. I’ll admit, aside from my work at the magical Congress, I hardly interact with No-Majs myself.”

“What is your job there, if I might ask?” 

“I’m the director of the Department of Magical Law Enforcement. I’m an Auror.”

“What’s an Auror?” The word felt clumsy in Credence's mouth, and he was sure he wasn't saying it right. He tried again. "Aur- _ror_." 

Smiling at Credence's attempts to master the unfamiliar word, Percival explained, “I protect witches and wizards from those who would otherwise reveal our existence, or put us at risk.” 

Credence mulled that over. “So you’re a cop.”

“I’m the _head_ cop.” Percival smirked, and shook Credence lightly. He let go, Credence doing his best not to lean into him. “And if I want to keep my job as head cop, I need to get to work.” 

“You’re leaving?” Credence winced at the slight whine in his voice. Of course Percival wouldn’t have the time to loll about the estate all day with him. He was an important wizard, from the sound of it. The bond ceremony was over and done with, and Credence supposed it made sense for Percival to get on with his life.

He tried to hide how bereft the thought made him, of being left behind.

Unexpectedly, he felt Percival cup both hands around the base of Credence’s face, pulling him close to buss a kiss on his lips. “Don’t pout.”

“I don’t pout,” Credence protested automatically, making Percival chuckle. When Percival pressed their cheeks together, Credence could feel him smiling, and he was slightly mollified. Feeling daring, he slipped his arms lightly around Percival’s waist, holding him close. Almost in reward, Percival pressed a kiss to Credence’s cheek, then chin, and finally a thorough, lewd kiss to Credence’s mouth, with made Credence’s toes curl in the soft, worn leather of his new boots. 

“My father will meet with you yet this morning,” Percival said against Credence’s lip. “He offered to start making an assessment of how best we might begin your magical education."

“Magical education. Wow.” Credence couldn’t help but marvel. It still felt like a dream, and also possibly a clerical error. He'd never had much of a normal education. He'd always liked reading, and numbers, but it had been a while. He'd been reasonably talented before Ma had insisted he stop attending when he was twelve.

He wondered if he'd make a fool of himself trying to learn magic in front of Percival's father.

After one last kiss, Percival pulled away and stood. “I’ll be home for a late lunch.”

The prospect of hours alone by himself in the estate, even broken up by a visit from Silas, stretched in Credence’s mind’s eye in a terrible parade. “Alright. Well, goodbye then, I guess.” He worried he sounded too melancholy, but Percival had already walked to the dining room door.

“Goodbye, Credence!” Percival gave a jolly wave, pulled out his wand, and disappeared with a deafening _crack_ into a dizzying swirling shape in the air. Credence flinched, and then he was alone.

In the ringing hush, he did his best not to feel abandoned, sitting alone in the cavernous empty dining room, waiting for Silas to arrive and teach him how to access something inside he still wasn’t even convinced he possessed. He wasn’t successful, and curled up in chair, feeling small.

 

* * *

 

Graves was feeling buoyant. He was well-fed, and well-fucked, and his magic was singing merrily in his blood like a lightning bolt that had been recharged by an overnight storm and was now raring to go. The prospect of being bonded for the rest of his life was starting to look like a pretty good deal.

He thought of Credence, who would no doubt be waiting politely for him to return to the estate for lunch, comfortable and safe and free from harm, and he found himself smiling as he entered the MACUSA building. 

When he got into the Magical Enforcement offices, everything was a shambles. This was more or less an everyday occurrence, so he did his best to glide through the front office, refusing to be waylaid by any number of harried, frantic Aurors trying to get approval or attention or direction so Graves could make it safely to his office. 

His assistant had left a note for a missed firecall from former Auror Goldstein. He frowned at it. The witch just did not know when to leave well enough alone. Normally he would have thrown the piece of parchment away, confident in his decision that Tina had shown poor judgment by interfering with Mary Lou Barebone and her children and did not deserve an appeal of her dismissal.

Today, he saw the parchment, and thought of Credence, and suddenly his own judgment did not feel so clear.

He set the parchment aside, to be dealt with it later. 

Beneath it was a detailed report from Auror Berentine of yet more property damage caused by the mysterious force that had been wreaking havoc on the lower west side for weeks now. It seemed another building had mostly been destroyed. This one was an auxiliary office for one of the larger No-Maj banks in town. No one had been killed, thank god, but an elderly No-Maj man had been injured and taken to the hospital. By the time Aurors had arrived, NYC police and fire had also made an appearance, and it seemed things had nearly devolved into a standoff.

Briefly, Graves felt guilty that he had not been able to assist. If he recalled correctly, he’d been hustling Credence and his horrible family into a transfigured car by the time the first Aurors had responded to the scene.

Still, it seemed the Aurors had eventually gained control. Repairs had been made, and No-Maj witnesses effectively Obliviated. Some story about a kitchen accident fabricated for the injured old man at the hospital.

It was solid work, and he made a note to tell Auror Berentine and her team so.

Nothing about the random nature of the attacks made sense yet, but Graves was confident that a pattern would emerge eventually. He just had to be patient. With the vibration of his bond-strengthened magic at his fingertips, he felt especially confident that he would make the connection soon.

He sat in his chair, pondering the day’s tasks. He had nearly three dozen top-priority concerns demanding his attention after his half-day off yesterday, and yet he found himself distracted. Finally, he gave into the impulse and held his wand to the alert buzzer on his desk.

“Lusitania,” he called, his voice amplified to reach the space outside his office door.

After a moment his assistant came bustling in, a stack of haphazard and no doubt urgent memos and notes clutched to her chest. “Yes, Auror Graves?”

“I need you bring me all the files you can find on missing or kidnapped magical children we have in the basements.”

Lusitania, ever the dependable assistant, didn’t even blink. “Parameters?”

“Bring me anything and everything within the last twenty-two years, throughout the United States.”

“Right away, sir.” Lusitania turned to go, then paused. “Auror Graves?" 

Graves didn’t glance up from where he had already begun perusing another report from yesterday, on this one an unauthorized duel in the Bronx that had necessitated nearly a dozen No-Maj Obliviations, holy mother of Merlin. “Hm?”

“I just wanted to say—that is, if it’s not inappropriate to mention—" 

That caught Graves’ attention. It was unlike Lusitania to sound so flustered. It spoke of professional intimacy, and Graves took pains to maintain the strictest of professional boundaries with all his employees. He couldn’t remember a time when any of them had been anything less than painstakingly formal with him. 

He looked up to see her face gone red, nearly matching her bright red hair. “What on earth is the matter?” 

“Congratulations on your bonding,” she exclaimed in a rush, and Disapparated without warning.

“Thank you,” he muttered to the empty room, feeling hot and off-kilter and strangely pleased by the words in a way he would never admit to anyone ever, a list that began with his assistant and ended, most firmly with his father.

Graves felt heat creeping up his own collar, of all the _indignity_ , and scowled.

With an embarrassed harrumph at himself, he bent his head and got back to work tracking the day’s work.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> a big thanks to everyone who's given this fic a chance so far! it's always intimidating (at least for me) to start writing for a new pairing in a new fandom, and you guys have made this a fun little adventure. as the great warrior-poet Drake once said: you da you da best.


	5. Chapter 5

* * *

 

It was worse than Credence had feared. He was completely hopeless at magic.

“I’m terrible,” he said dully. He let his left hand, the one holding the spare wand, drop listlessly to his side, eyes on the tapered candle before him that remained cheerily illuminated, refusing to even pretend to yield to Credence’s magical attempts.

“You’re not hopeless, you’re unpracticed,” Silas replied evenly. He was standing just behind Credence’s left shoulder, observing his failures. 

“I can’t feel anything,” Credence insisted. He desperately tried again to reach deep within for some mysterious wellspring of magic, wherever it might be hiding, but it felt just beyond his reach, the harder he reached for it. 

Silas made a sound of impatience. “Credence, when Percival was eleven it took him three months to learn how to perform a simple warming charm. He would get so frustrated he’d hide behind a chair and refuse to come out for hours.”

It was so unbelievable a mental image, thinking of capable, urbane Percival throwing a child’s temper tantrum, even _as_ a child, that Credence turned to look at Silas in surprise, who raised his eyebrows, looking satisfied. “Exactly. Every witch or wizard starts somewhere. Now, one more time. When you look at the candle before you, as you bring the wand down, be sure to imagine the flame going out. Picture it in your head as clearly as you can.” 

“Isn't there be some kind of spell I should be saying?” Credence stalled desperately.

“Spells will come later. For now, we’re just trying to give you a feel for your magic. Introduce yourself to it, if you will.”

Credence took a deep breath, looked at the candle in front of him, and imagined the damn thing going out. He brought down the wand, a spare one Silas had found in his desk, and watched in despair as the candle flame didn’t even flicker. 

He cast his gaze at his feet, knowing he was likely wasting Silas’ time. He seemed like an important man, with assumedly important wizard responsibilities to attend to. Instead, he was spending his morning watching Credence fail to perform magic.

“Maybe I’m not magical after all,” Credence said softly, voicing his secret shame. It felt like the obvious elephant in the room. Perhaps Percival had made a mistake, and the bond itself was nothing but a mirage, the pull he'd felt earlier nothing but a trick of Credence's imagination, and they were no more connected now than two strangers on the street. 

“Now, my boy, there’s no need to be melancholy,” Silas said with a sigh. “Your magic has spent years repressed within your body, it only makes sense that it might resist being drawn out on a whim.” 

Credence felt absolutely deflated. Silas clapped him on the shoulder. "One last, solid try."

Credence squared his shoulders, face the candle head on, and as he looked at it, he had never despised anything more. It flickered, and he narrowed his eyes. The thing was standing between Credence and his new life, between him and his bond, and the candle didn't even look embarrassed, didn't even _care_. He ground his teeth, hating the candle so desperately that it was like something came alight within his body. He swayed slightly, dizzy with it.

Behind him, Silas instructed, "Do it."

Credence hesitated, still taken aback by the force of the sudden anger inside him.

" _Now_ , Credence!"

Startled, he flinched, and the wand shot up, clenched in his hand, without Credence making a conscious effort to move it. It jerked with a mind of its own, and like a conduit being opened, the anger and hatred and fury at the sheer temerity of the candle to defy his will seemed to explode through his body and out the tip of the wand like an evil, invisible pus.

The entire candle exploded with a sonic-seeming boom.

Credence fell backward in fright, at the sudden noise and light, but also in primal fear, at whatever had just erupted from him, without his consent.

Silas for his part was clapping his hands.

"No, that's excellent, Credence!" Silas exclaimed, going to explore where the candle once stood, "really, giving it a little extra power isn't terrible, it's very—"

He fell abruptly silent. He was staring at the edge of the desk where the candle once sat. Credence could only see some of his profile, and was startled to see Silas' eyes widen.

"What is it?" he asked, shoving the wand into his pocket. He didn't want to feel it in his fingers anymore. It felt wrong.

When Silas didn't answer, he moved silently to his side. When he looked down at where the candle used to be, he began to understand Silas' disquiet.

Both the candle and the candlestick were completely obliterated. There was a wide, circular blackened scorch mark where the candle had stood, burned deeply into the old wood of the desk. A few wisps of smoke hung in the air, but the sight wasn't nearly as bad as the smell that hovered in the air directly around the scorch mark. It smelled off, like something just beginning to rot, sweet and sour and thick all at once. It crawled up Credence's nose, and he had to swallow back a gag. It was repulsive, and familiar, in some strange way Credence couldn't quite understand.

"Is it supposed to look like that?" he asked uneasily, when he didn't feel at risk of retching again. Silas didn't answer, and Credence couldn't bring himself to push for an answer.

At his side, Silas seemed to take a moment to compose himself, and when he turned to face Credence, he had a broad smile pasted on his face. His eyes were tight, and the smile looked forced, but he clapped Credence warmly on the should regardless. “No need tiring ourselves out on your first go around. Let’s take a break.” He sounded loud and jovial, but immediately began steering Credence away from the mark.

They’d only been at it for a half hour or so (starting with how to hold a wand, how to visualize a magical objective, how to address a magical subject, in this case a candle, and finally how to mentally articulate a spell) but Credence felt exhausted, and a little afraid, so he made no objections. Silas led him to the opposite end of the room, to a comfortable-looking winged back chair near the fireplace. Credence fell into it. Silas settled into the armchair opposite, and began rustling around in a nearby a cabinet that seemed to double as a side table.

As Credence watched in growing alarm, Silas produced two heavy goblets and a decanter filled with some liquid that smelled alcoholic.

“It’s eleven in the morning,” Credence protested weakly.

Silas waved a hand dismissively. “Come now, it’s just a light morning wine. Just a touch of sophistication to help a man face his day with dignity.” He poured a glass for each of them and handed one to Credence, who accepted gingerly. 

Credence didn’t think there was such a thing as morning wine. He thought of the thunderous indignation that would surely grace Ma’s face at the mere suggestion of such a practice and felt suddenly daring, raising the glass to his lips curiously. The floral notes pleased him as he breathed it in. He took a sip. It was smooth on his tongue, and as he swallowed, it made his fingers and toes feel pleasantly warm.

“There it is,” Silas said approvingly and took a healthy drink of his own wine.

They say quietly for a moment, the wine softening the lack of conversation, and pushing away the memory of the upsetting scene with the candle, making the silence into something unobtrusive and comfortable. Credence did his best not to think of the feeling of that dark anger shooting out of his arm like a wild thing. As he dared to take another sip, it became easier, and he thought drowsily that maybe morning wine was a reasonable ritual after all.

“I’m happy that Percival has bonded with you,” Silas declared without warning. 

Credence choked a little on his sip of wine. He gawked. He didn’t know how that could possibly be true. Percival and he had barely been bonded a day, and so far he felt like more of a burden than anything useful. He thought Silas might be trying to distract him from the candle, but if he was, it was working. 

And the floor seemed to be open, so to speak, so he dared to ask, “Why wasn’t Percival already bonded?” It was still a mystery, why some enterprising witch or wizard hadn’t snatched him up already.

Silas took a while to answer, but when he did, he seemed to settle in, ready to pontificate. Credence curled up happily in this chair, content to listen. He couldn’t remember the last time an adult had been satisfied to hold simple conversation with him without lecturing or scolding or telling him his soul was destined for hell. 

“Percival has always been a solitary person. Doesn’t like to rely on anyone, doesn’t like to answer for his actions. Likes to be in charge.” Silas gave a rueful laugh. “But I’ll be honest, I suspect it partly has to do with the fact that a bonding was what was expected of him. If there’s one thing Percival despises, it’s being told what to do. Do you know he refused to be tutored at home, as generations of Graves had been before him?” Credence didn’t reply, for of course he did not know this, or really what Silas meant by it, so he waited quietly for Silas to continue. “He sent an owl directly to Ilvermorny himself, all of twelve years old, demanding they allow him to attend. Of course they wouldn’t think of denying a Graves entrance, but he definitely shocked his mother and I by bucking tradition.”

“What’s Ilvermorny?” Credence asked, carefully sounding out the unfamiliar name.

For some reason, Silas seemed pleased at his curiosity. Credence wondered idly if Silas wasn’t a bit of a solitary character himself, mostly alone in an enormous estate with no one to ramble to. Credence hoped he was decent enough company. 

“It’s the premier wizarding school in America, but controversial in its own way, I suppose. Most of the old families school their children at home to preserve the strength of the nameline as long as possible, but Percival refused.” 

A disquieting thought rose in Credence’s mind. “Will I be sent to Ilvermorny?” Credence had enjoyed school, most especially the escape school had provided from Ma when he was younger, but the idea of being separated and sent into the unknown, away from Percival and the Graves estate, filled him with tension.

But Silas was already shaking his head. He noticed Credence’s goblet had gone low and casually summoned the wine decanter over with his wand to refresh it. “I doubt Ilvermorny would fit your needs at this stage. Besides, as a newly bonded wizard, it wouldn't be healthy. Extended periods of isolation from one another would cause you both great pain.” 

Which was an interesting detail, but rather than asking for more information Credence found himself saying, “But you’re not bonded,” and then freezing, embarrassed at his boldness. He also wasn’t sure how he’d known that. He just felt it, that Silas was alone, unlinked to another. 

Silas didn’t seem offended. “See, that’s what I mean about your untapped magic. You can tell that I’m no longer bonded?” At Credence’s hesitant nod, Silas continued, “And my son mentioned you could see through his Invisibility charms earlier on. I wonder if you’ve always been able to see odd things, things other people could not.” With a meaningful nod, Silas let Credence consider that. 

And Credence could admit that more than once, many more times than that in fact, he’d felt like he’d seen something no one else appeared to find remarkable. A flash of movement, an oddly appointed object, an animal or individual that did not appear to move or behave as it should. Like Percival had seemed odd too, when he had first begun observing the Second Salemers, but no one else, not Ma or the girls or the other children, no one else could see it, could see Percival. But as Credence had become accustomed to doing, he’d overlooked it. It was the only way to continue on without feeling like he was going mad. For a short time as a child, he’d wondered if he was possessed by the devil. Once he’d become more or less confident that God and the devil and all of the terrifying stories of hellfire and damnation Ma told were probably less than factual, he decided it was best to ignore it, and focus on getting through his days with as little confusion and dismay as possible. Life with Ma provided its fair share of those already.

“Every witch and wizard in America is required by law to take pains to maintain secrecy when performing magic," Silas said, seeming to follow Credence's thoughts. "If you’ve been able to see evidence of other's magic, even some of it, that’s remarkable. Only a powerful wizard can unintentionally nullify another’s concealment magic, without a wand, without intent, no less.”

Credence didn’t argue, but he still found it difficult to fully accept what Silas was saying. What he may or may not have been able to see aside, he still didn’t feel very magical, especially after an exhausting morning of frustration ending in a discomforting display of something he didn't feel was under his control.

“Anyway,” Silas went on, as though he hadn’t implied anything especially remarkable, “you were referring to my own bond. Percival’s mother and I shared an especially strong bond, and it brought great strength to the Graves name during our time together.” He smiled, somewhat wistfully. “It was surprisingly strong, in fact. Percival’s mother was a squib.” Seeing Credence’s confusion, Silas elaborated, “A non-magical witch or wizard. Late onset loss of her magic, as it were. She was raised magical, but at the time of our bond, she’d lost her ability to perform spells and other enchantments. My parents resisted our bonding as a result. It was an unusual case at the time. There is still little understanding of the causes and intricacies of squib magic.”

Credence swallowed uncomfortably. Maybe that’s what he was. A squib of some kind. It didn’t sound good. Silas didn’t seem bothered by it, though.

“Nevertheless, our nameline reacted to her dormant magic just fine. Enormously well, in fact.” Silas chuckled to himself, and for some reason, Credence blushed. “But she passed when Percival was just out of school, almost fifteen years ago now.” A shadow fell over Silas’ face. “It was a difficult time for our nameline.”

Not knowing the proper response to the deep, obvious grief on Silas’ face, Credence remained silent. He’d never loved anyone enough to feel that type of sadness. The closest he’d come was the grief of abject loneliness.

Silas seemed to come out of it on his own, however. He drained his wine glass and shook his head thoughtfully. “I think the shock of losing his mother made Percival hesitant to risk a bond himself.” He glanced slyly at Credence. “Although I'm sure he's been hard-pressed to resist such an _elemental_ connection as you both seem to share.” Silas raised his bushy eyebrows up and down in a teasing, pointed manner, and Credence covered his hot face with his hands.

“I apologize if I’ve shocked you with my candor. I’ll admit, with the bond magic it’s easy to forget you’ve not always been a member of our nameline.” 

Credence felt warm all over. He looked at his hands, smiling softly. He’d never felt like a member of anything before. The comfort was so sharp it was nearly unbearable. 

“My, what a tale I’ve spun for you,” Silas said into the comfortable quiet, blinking. He seemed slightly inebriated. Credence couldn’t blame him, as he also felt more than a little tipsy. Silas glanced at the ponderous grandfather clock in the corner of the room, its hands spinning at alternating directions and speeds with no discernible pattern Credence could see. “My apologies. An old man likes to ramble, I suppose. Percival should be home soon enough.”

As though summoned, there was a loud crack in the hallway, and the door to the study swung open to reveal Percival, looking in on Silas and Credence and taking in the nearly-empty goblets in their hands with disapproval. 

“Father’s introduced you to the morning wine, hasn’t he?” Percival said, sounding both resigned and amused as he wandered in. To Credence’s delight, he came to stand beside his chair, settling gracefully on one of the overstuffed arms so his hip pressed warmly to Credence’s shoulder.

Unbidden, Credence felt a bright, dopey smile spread across his face. 

Percival smiled down at him. He shook his head. “You need food to eat, and quick.”

He did something complicated with his wand, and in the next moment, a wheeled cart with no driver was bustling importantly into the room, weighed down heavily with a plate of sandwiches. Credence suddenly realized he was starving, and at Percival’s nod, took a sandwich in both hands and began chowing down. He would have been embarrassed by his poor manners if he didn’t see Silas tucking in just as enthusiastically at his side.

“Have you had a good morning lesson so far?” Percival asked. 

That darkened Credence’s mood considerably. But before he could admit how poorly it really had gone, Silas cut in. “Accessing magic long left dormant is a complex endeavor. Today was a good start.” 

Credence didn’t want to mislead Percival, and if it might impact their bond, it made sense to be transparent that there was something wrong with his magic. He didn’t know why Silas was hedging so baldly. But when he looked at Silas, Silas gave an innocent look.

“Perhaps you could take him to get an appropriate wand sometime this afternoon,” Silas suggested, making Credence choke a little in surprise. He had no idea why they should go to the trouble of getting him a separate wand, when the well-scuffed spared in his pocket worked perfectly fine as a prop while he continued to struggle.

But Percival accepted the suggestion easily as he brought his own sandwich to his mouth. “I’ll make an appointment with Grooble’s when I’m back at the office.”

“Take the boy out somewhere in the interim.” 

Percival tensed at the suggestion, and Credence cringed inwardly at intruding on Percival's day so plainly. He swallowed his mouthful of food to dutifully insist, “I should practice my magic more,” albeit reluctantly.

“You’ve done plenty for a first morning,” Silas allowed easily.

“I have work,” Percival said pointedly. But then he looked at Credence, curious. “Would you like to see the MACUSA offices?”

Credence had only a vague idea of what a MACUSA even was, but he knew that Percival worked there, and he leaped at the chance to spend the rest of the day with Percival rather than alone at the estate, or embarrassing himself with his magic, such as it was, in front of Silas. “Yes, I would. Please.” 

“It’s easiest to Apparate. Would you mind if you Side-Along?”

Credence, having absolutely no idea what any of that meant, and made confident by morning wine and Percival looking handsome and enticing at his side, finished his sandwich and held out his hand, happily oblivious. “Absolutely. Lead the way.”

 

* * *

 

When they hit the ground inside the MACUSA offices, Graves realized that a Side-Along may have been a tactical error.

He turned to catch Credence before his knees gave, holding him up so he could catch his breath. He looked more than a little green.

“Breathe through it,” Graves advised. He grasped Credence by the elbow and led him out of the main flow of foot traffic into a hallway by the restrooms. “It can be jarring at first.” 

“Magic hates me,” Credence groaned out miserably. He swallowed once, then twice. He attempted to straighten, looking up at Graves sadly. “I can’t even make a candle go out with my wand, and then when I do..." He trailed off, discomfited.

The significance was lost on Graves, but he tried to make a sympathetic face anyway. “Well, if push comes to shove, you can always just blow it out the old-fashioned way.” He pursed his lips and blew a puff of air at Credence’s face in demonstration, making him smile, the tautness that had been clear on his face since Graves had come home for lunch finally lifting.

It made Graves relax slightly too, unaware that Credence’s displeasure had been upsetting him until he felt it drifting away.

He wasn’t sure why he’d acquiesced so easily to his father’s suggestion to bring Credence to work. It was already unusual for Graves to interrupt his day to return to the estate for lunch, and yet he’d found himself checking the clock obsessively all morning, waiting for the excuse to step out.

And then to bring Credence, an impressionable, as-yet unregistered wizard to MACUSA, when Graves was already neck-deep in projects for the day? It made no sense, and yet he’d jumped at the chance as soon as it presented itself.

He’d simply have to ensure Credence wouldn’t be in the way. He had work to accomplish, after all.

After another touch-and-go moment, Credence exhaled shakily. He leaned his weight slightly against Graves, who found himself easily accommodating him, wrapping an arm around his waist to keep him steady. “I’m alright, now,” Credence said.

“I’m sorry, I wasn’t thinking,” Graves murmured. It had been stupid of him. The first time Apparating was disorienting for any witch or wizard, let alone a Side-Along. It was a struggle to remember how brand new Credence, in nearly every way. 

Credence smiled wanly. “I think I’ll pull through,” he said, voice light. “You’re stuck with me for now.”

It was the first time he had ever teased Graves, and it had the unfortunate effect of surprising him into silence. He could only gaze down at Credence, unwillingly absorbed by the adorably proud light in his eyes, satisfied at his own cleverness. 

“Come along, then,” he finally managed to get out, gruffly. Credence followed easily, falling into step as Graves swept back onto the main floor of MACUSA. 

He could sense Credence’s amazement at the hustle and bustle around them, the unfamiliar magical creatures intermingling with witches and wizards rushing by. Graves himself was grimly aware of the curious gazes of his colleagues. He could practically feel their eyes tracking the way he guided Credence with a hand on his lower back. He kept his chin raised and ignored them all. 

It would cost them a few minutes, but he decided to take Credence up the stairwell rather than the magical elevator, wary of making him motion sick again. Before they entered the Department of Magical Enforcement office on the second floor, he paused, meeting Credence’s bright, curious eyes.

“I’m the director of this department,” Graves said, picking his words carefully, “and most of the Aurors you’ll meet are my direct subordinates. I have a certain level of authority to maintain, so if I seem a little—cold, then. That’s why.” He felt clumsy, unsure why he was taking such pains to explain any of this to Credence, or even what he was trying to say, but as usual, Credence took the entirely unfamiliar circumstances in stride. 

He nodded and reached up to straighten Graves’ tie, smoothing his hand over his jacket with a proprietary eye that made Graves exhale in unexpected interest.

“I’ll stay out of the way,” Credence promised. 

It was what he’d wanted, but hearing Credence say it unsettled Graves. Like it was no less than Credence deserved. Graves cleared his throat. “Yes, well. Good.”

When they walked in the side door of the office, the very air seemed to stand still as though someone had cast a Silencing spell. Graves guided Credence through the crowded main room filled with cubicles, keenly aware of the staring eyes of every Auror they passed. The news of Graves’ bonding had apparently spread like wild, and in a room filled with witches and wizards paid to connect the dots, Credence’s identity seemed lost on no one.

They passed Lusitania, who tilted her head in surprise. “Auror Graves,” she said stiltedly. “You’re—you’ve returned, I mean. How was lunch?”

Graves raised his eyebrows at the unexpected personal nature of her question. As far as his assistant should be concerned, Graves never ate, nor slept, nor took personal time off. “Satisfactory.” 

She colored delicately. “Of course.” To Credence, she said gently, “Hello, sir.” 

Credence gave an awkward wave, and Graves couldn’t help but breath out through his nose, the smallest of chuckles.

Lusitania looked shaken to her core. 

Graves did not roll his eyes, but it was a near thing. He waited, and then prompted, “Did those memos come in?” 

His assistant started. “Oh! Yes, of course. They’re on your desk.”

“Excellent.” Graves was already heading in, propelling Credence along with him. His hand was on the doorknob when Lusitania called out, “Oh, Auror Graves—” but by then he was already in his office, and he could see for himself what Lusitania had been belatedly trying to warn him about. 

Seraphina Picquery, President of the Magical Congress of the United States, was standing by the window near his desk surveying the view outside. She turned at the sound of the door, the golden embroidery of her head wrap catching the light. 

“Auror Graves,” she intoned deliberately. She hated to be kept waiting. As usual, Graves wondered how in Merlin’s hell he was supposed to have anticipated her visit in order to avoid keeping her waiting when she refused to send formal meeting requests through his office. 

“Madame President,” he said, and just as purposefully, “I didn’t know I was expecting a visit.”

“I thought I would just stop by around lunch, but I was surprised to hear from your assistant that you’d stepped out. Very surprised.” She greeted Credence. “Hello.”

President Picquery was known for her beguiling gaze, but at the moment Graves felt she was laying it on a little thick. He could feel Credence hunching up beside him. He didn’t know if he was feeling especially protective because it was his bondmate she was attempting to mesmerize, or if it was just his general irritation with Picquery’s general sense of self-importance, even if she was the damn president.

She and Graves had come up through the ranks at roughly the same time, Picquery taking the political track while Graves maintained his unwavering focus on Auroring. Even with over a decade working together at their backs, Graves still remembered when she was a soft-spoken young witch from Georgia who’d had trouble raising her voice to be heard in the MACUSA debates; she surely had similar memories of Graves as a head-strong Magical Enforcement upstart, always careening from calamity into chaos with his initial lack of caution in the field. 

Graves felt the weight of that shared sense of history as Picquery turned her frank eyes on him. “My, quite a day in the life for you, Auror Graves.”

There was no help for it, he decided. With a hand on Credence’s arm, he got down to business. “President Picquery, I’d like to present my bondmate, Credence Graves.” He did his best not to sound sheepish. He didn’t owe the president an explanation, and it wasn’t entirely unheard of for witches and wizards to take bondmates unannounced as they grew older to ensure magical acuity. Not that Graves was an old man by any means, he thought sourly. Something about Picquery just brought out the resentful young Auror in him.

Credence bowed jerkily. “Nice to meet you, ma’am.” His voice was shaking. Graves pulled him slightly closer, tucking him neatly into his side. Picquery caught every move.

She gave a graceful incline of her head, studying Credence with interest. “Are you originally from New York City?” she asked.

“Um, yes, ma’am. I’ve lived in the city my whole life.”

Her eyes acquired a keen gleam that Graves didn’t like very much.

“I’m surprised we’ve never met before, if you’re such an old friend of Graves’.”

“He’s from a conservative family,” Graves put in vaguely. He felt Credence shrug uncomfortably beside him but pushed on. “They rarely go out in society.” 

“Of what nameline?” Picquery asked Credence.

“It hardly matters; he’s a Graves now,” Graves said airily. Picquery finally deigned to look at him, annoyed. He met her gaze flatly, because the strictness of nameline etiquette was on his side, and even the MACUSA president wouldn’t risk flouting convention by pressing for nameline details if Graves implied it was a personal matter. And since the last thing either of them needed was to pique Picquery’s interest, Graves let the moment hang. The witch had a well-earned reputation for doggedness if the subject matter interested her, or might even tangentially pertain to the national interest.

“Indeed,” she allowed after a weighted silence. She turned to Credence once more, lips curving in a way that could be considered friendly if it wasn’t so probing. “A pleasure to meet you.”

Graves realized he was fast coming to abhor the way Credence bowed his head so sharply when he felt he was speaking to someone of authority. It made him uncomfortably aware of the times Credence had assumed the submissive posture with him.

“You as well, ma’am,” Credence mumbled.

The moment passed, and Picquery turned to Graves with a glint in her eye. “What’s this I hear about buildings being mysteriously destroyed, Auror Graves?”

Graves heaved a great, silent sigh. “It’s an open case. We’re gathering evidence.”

“And does that evidence indicate a magical explanation? One that threatens our collective secrecy?”

As president, Picquery’s primary responsibility was protecting the magical community through concealment. Although ostensibly Graves’ priorities aligned with the president’s, he had a parallel goal to keep the Executive office from interfering with the daily investigative tasks of his department unless absolutely necessary.

“The evidence indicates that it may be within our jurisdiction, yes.” 

“Why haven’t I heard about it from you directly, then?” 

“It has been bookmarked for your weekly intelligence briefing, ma’am. Along with a dozen other high-priority topics.” He did his best to keep his voice even. He and Picquery were often been at odds over the president’s tendency to fixate, and Graves’ complimentary tendency to downplay in order to maintain his department’s maneuverability within the field. 

“Now is not the time for your secrecy, Graves,” she said stiffly.

“I would never actively keep anything of national importance secret from your office, Madame President,” Graves replied, equally stiff. He turned his head to the door, “Lusitania?” 

His assistant came hurrying in, a folder clasped tightly to her chest, anticipating his needs as always. He decided to forgive her for her earlier over-familiarity. “Here are the preliminary briefing notes, Madame President,” she said, handing Picquery the folder.

“In anticipation of the briefing, please feel free to peruse our top cases and prepare any questions. You know I live to keep the Executive branch abreast of any and all Enforcement developments.” Graves didn’t even attempt to hold back his smirk. 

"And I presume that any and all notes on relevant No-Maj terrorist and extremist groups are also included in this dossier?" Picquery added carelessly. She looked at the folder, then up at Graves. She didn't glance at Credence, but she didn't need to. He refused to react.

"Certainly," he said evenly.

“I’ll expect you in my office tomorrow morning with a full report, Auror Graves,” she said meaningfully.

Graves dipped his chin, acknowledging the rebuke for what it was. His briefing the week before had been thin, but that was because he preferred as best practice to wait for a significant breakthrough before escalating it any further than necessary. He’d have liked to wait another week to investigate the property damages as well, but he’d apparently lost that window. 

With her characteristic lack of goodbye, Picquery strode from the room.

Beside him, Credence released the breath he’d been holding with a sigh.

“Relax, you did well,” Lusitania said quietly. Graves was surprised that she was still in the office. He was even more surprised when he looked over to see her giving Credence a friendly nudge in the ribs. 

“I did?” Credence asked faintly.

“Sure,” Lusitania assured him. She snorted good-naturedly. “She’s arguably the most powerful witch in the entire country. Anyone who manages not to keel over in fright has gone above and beyond expectations, in my mind.”

Graves felt Credence relax, leaning into him, like Lusitania had managed to put him at ease. Graves was only mildly annoyed that his assistant was the cause of that ease and not him.

Obviously interpreting Graves’ frown for disapproval, Lusitania straightened her shoulders, growing serious. “Auror Graves, Porpentina Goldstein firecalled three times while you were gone. She said she needs to meet with you.”

“Goblin’s balls, that witch is relentless,” Graves muttered. “Schedule it for tomorrow. I have too much work to finish today.”

“Of course, Auror Graves.” 

“One other thing.” He kept his voice casual, but nonetheless Credence looked his way curiously, like he sensed something was afoot. “Schedule an appointment with Grooble’s Wand Store today. Anything after four.” 

Even though she didn’t betray any emotion with her face, Lusitania appeared to understand the significance. “Right away, sir.” She glanced at Credence, who was smiling now, beaming at Graves as though he couldn’t help himself. Something softened in her face. Graves supposed it was difficult to do much but melt at the sight of Credence’s open excitement. “Say, if you’re not too busy, Credence, I could use some help sorting some files at my desk. That way Auror Graves can get his work done in time for the appointment.”

“Really? Well, if I wouldn’t be in the way,” Credence said hesitantly, glancing at Graves as though for permission, which was irritating, for some reason. Graves wasn’t his parent; bondmates didn’t need to ask for permission. 

“Yes, yes, go on. I don’t need you hovering around all day,” he said, sounding much harsher than he’d meant, but refusing to back down, especially with his assistant as an audience.

To his astonishment, Credence didn’t look at all dismayed. Instead, he darted forward to press a kiss to Graves' cheek, blushing as he pulled back, but looking pleased with himself.

“Bold,” Graves reproached without heat, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

Lusitania politely ignored the display, although Graves judged from her face that he had all but lost whatever Imposing Employer Gravitas he’d ever held.

“I’ll grab you an extra chair at my desk,” Lusitania offered as she led Credence out of the office. Credence gave her a bashful grin, seeming to forget himself in a way that Graves didn’t think he’d ever seen before.

Graves watched them go, oddly reluctant. He did worry he wouldn't actually get anything done with Credence there, even if the young man did nothing but sit at the window and stare attractively out on the cityscape. But he felt restless watching the easy way Credence seemed to fall into step with his assistant. He’d never heard Luistania sound so casual before. He wondered if she was this friendly to the other Aurors. She was also nearly Credence’s age, Graves couldn’t help but not in light discomfort. She barely came up to his shoulder, looking dainty and young as they went off together to sort through tedious files.

Alone in his office, Graves focused aggressively on the case file in front of him.

He read the same sentence over five times, stewing, before he realized what he was doing.

“Pull yourself together, Graves,” he muttered sternly to himself, and turned the page.

 

* * * 

 

Lusitania was filled with a kind of energy that left Credence off-balance. She’d spent the first twenty minutes busily gossiping about five or six witches and wizards that Credence had never heard of as she sorted through a towering stack of files, before handing off a few to Credence to begin making sense of on his own.

When it was clear Credence was a less than satisfying audience for gossip, she settled for intermittently muttering to herself about a few deadlines that appeared to be coming up, and left Credence to try and muddle through her filing system in peace.

Every few minutes, he lost track of the file names in his hands because he’d gotten distracted by something dramatic and miraculous taking place in the Auror pool in the main section of the office. 

Once, it was the unmistakable roar of an angry, blazing fire, followed by a rush of heat that made Credence’s face feel scorched even from the other end of the room.

“Whoops, sorry,” a young man called out sheepishly. Fire was shooting from the tip of his wand like a flamethrower, and he struggled to point it away from those around him, muttering under his breath until the flame was extinguished.

“Auror Beetmonts,” Lusitania supplied without looking up. “He’s brand new, just arrived from Ilvermorny last month. He has some kind of affinity for fire, or it for him. Either way, he’ll probably set the entire Congree on fire eventually.” 

She didn’t sound too bent out of shape at the prospect, so Credence closed his mouth shut, which had fallen open in shock.

A few minutes later, a fight broke out between two Aurors and a wizard standing between them wearing glowing, assumedly magical, handcuffs. 

“I want a lawyer!” the wizard was screaming. He pushed back against one Auror, used the other gain leverage, and twisted upward, kicking over a desk, sending it and its piles of files clattering to the floor. “I want a damn lawyer!”

One of the Aurors struggling with him cast a quick spell, and the wizard went abruptly silent. He was still screaming, but soundlessly, his mouth opening and closing ineffectively as the second Auror wrestled him into a chair. 

“This place is wild,” Credence said in awe.

“This place is enough to drive any self-respecting witch or wizard to drink,” Lusitania corrected grimly. She set a new stack of files on Credence’s lap, making him grunt. “Sorry. That’s a big one. Sort it by size.” 

Looking at the pile, Credence saw what she meant; the files were a variety of heights and widths, some no bigger than the palm of his hand, one so broad that it barely fit across his knees. “This is an odd way to sort files,” he couldn’t help but comment.

Lusitania gave him an odd look. “Well, yes. But we resize them at the end to make them the same. This just helps prioritize.” She chewed absently on her bottom lip, studying him. Credence began painstakingly sorting the files, avoiding her gaze. “Say, not to butt in where it's none of my business, but there’s something funny about you.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” Credence mumbled uneasily. He lost his grip on a stack of long, skinny files, sending papers skittering to the floor. He grimaced at his clumsiness and bent to collect them.

“You’re not—I mean, I know there’s no way, but I have to ask—you’re aren’t a squib, are you?”

“Not to my knowledge,” Credence said carefully. It still felt like a lie. He felt the farthest thing from special or noteworthy, and especially not magical. But despite his failures during his lesson with Silas earlier, he couldn’t ignore the throb of the bond in his chest. And when he focused on the bond, he felt alert, light on his feet, just plain healthier, and it was definitely better than the uncomfortable hyper vigilance of his old life with the Second Salemers. 

So at the very least, the bond was working. He couldn’t say the same for his magic or anything else about him.

Meanwhile, Lusitania had moved on, returning her focus to the files before her, using her wand to send each folder flying into its place in the cabinet with a carelessness Credence couldn’t help but envy. “I’ll tell you, I can’t imagine what being bonded to Auror Graves must be like,” she said casually. “I didn’t even know he would have something as unprofessional as a private life. I think some of us half-suspect that at the end of the day, he doesn’t even go home; just sits at his desk, knocks back a vial of Dreamless Sleep, and wakes up ready to fight crime in the morning fresh as a daisy."

The specifics of Lusitania’s little screed were mostly beyond Credence, but he got the impression it wasn’t very respectful. Finishing size-ordering his files, he straightened the edges, saying stiffly, “Mr. Graves is a very kind and decent man.”

Far from looking chastened, Lusitania appeared gleeful, as though Credence had unwittingly given her a choice piece of gossip. “He’s a good enough boss, it’s just odd to think of him taking a pretty young bondmate out of the blue.” She gave Credence an exaggerated leer, and he huffed, strangely flattered. She held her wand at the pile of files in his lap. “Systematize!” she said confidently. The files shifted in his hands, changing sizes until they were all the same uniform square, then zoomed into a larger pile on the corner of her desk. 

Credence must have let his astonishment at the simple yet fascinating bit of magic get the better of him. When he looked up, Lusitania was watching him, lips pursed. She appeared to be connecting some detail to another in her head, and coming up short.

Slowly, as though she didn’t quite believe her own words, “You...don’t know how to use a wand, do you?” She didn’t sound sharp or mean, just flummoxed. Credence shrugged, too embarrassed to come up with a lie. She stared at him for another long moment, then went slowly back to her own work, looking slightly uncomfortable.

That last thing he wanted was to make Percival look bad, and bringing a borderling No-Maj along who couldn’t even use a wand to put files away was surely shameful in this world. When he was sure Lusitania was refocused on her own task, he slowly, carefully, pulled the spare wand Silas had lended him from the pocket of his trousers and pointed it dubiously, careful to keep it below the edge of the desk so Lusitania couldn’t see, at a shorter and less intimidating stack of files on the desk.

He tried to imagine the files sorting themselves, tried to imagine them straightening and resizing effortlessly as Lusitania had done.

Not even a corner of a page gave a rustle.

He dropped the wand, demoralized. The center of his chest throbbed, and suddenly he felt like ten feet, a door and a few desks was much too great a distance.

“Excuse me, I just,” he said weakly, and rose abruptly. He gestured at Percival’s office, and Lusitania nodded.

“Of course. I’ll just finish up.” She gave him a apologetic smile. “Thanks for your help.”

When Credence got to the door, he had a hand on the handle before he realized Percival was speaking to someone, the edges of the conversation just audible through the crack in the door. He paused, not wanting to interrupt. Percival sounded annoyed.

“Nothing has changed,” Percival said impatiently. “The Second Salemers remain a potential terrorist organization, and if I tell you to perform surveillance, you perform surveillance, and keep your complaints to yourself.”

It shouldn't have come as a surprised, that there was a reason Percival had been watching Credence and his family in the first place. He thought that he might have even suspected it was something like this, since Ma's main sermons focused on what Credence was finally realizing was the dangers of magic, or something like it. Still, hearing it spelled out so blatantly made Credence catch his breath.

Still, it felt oddly similar to being hit in the back with a belt. The sharp slice of contact, the breathless dizziness of shock, the swift bloom of nearly unbearable ache as the pain became real. He found he was quite out of breath. He had no idea who Percival was talking to, or how, since he wasn’t yet sure exactly how magical people communicated without a telephone, but he leaned closer, helpless not to try and hear more.

Meanwhile, Percival was raising his voice. “I can't go into detail, but I'm becoming certain the group is a threat to our national secrecy. We may need to move soon, and we can't do that if we haven't acquired the appropriate warrants, and we can't do _that_ if—yes, exactly. You're catching on. Glad to see you feel like being an Auror today. Evidence. We need to build a case. Bring me a corroborating witness and we'll talk then.

He sounded beyond frustrated. Credence had no wish to wander in and interrupt whatever angry conversation he was currently engaged in. And then—

“You’re useless. I might as well grab a No-Maj off the street to assist. You have done nothing but waste my time.”

There was a snap, and the seething conversation ended. Credence stepped back, aghast at what he heard but also his own audacity in eavesdropping. He spun around and stumbled back in the direction of Lusitania and her files.

“Restroom?” he blurted. His head was suddenly aching.

Lusitania looked concerned, but pointed at the doorway to the stairs. “First floor, second door down the right,” she said. “Credence, are you—” but Credence was already stumbling out to freedom. 

He had no real destination in mind. All he wanted was to catch his breath and calm himself before Percival could see his distress. It was nothing to do with his bondmate. He’d been having a private conversation, and Credence had somehow thought it his right to listen in, and let those words penetrate and cut within him, as though Percival was not allowed to be honest, to speak to a business association without fear that his noisy, useless, non-magical bondmate (who he may have picked solely for his connection to a potentially dangerous anti-magic group, as it turned out, lord, Credence's whole chest was aching) may be listening in. 

It wasn’t Percival’s fault that he’d managed to perfectly echo not only the fears Credence hadn't even been smart enough to anticipate about this bonding, but also somehow flawlessly encapsulate Ma’s voice about his lack of any real utility. He felt like he was on the cusp of careening back into every moment in his life when he’d been left wincing and weak, from a beating and a tongue-lashing, feeling deeply, completely useless.

It wasn’t Percival’s fault that Credence was so easily misled.

He didn’t realize he was outside the great, cavernous, magical building until a horn honked and he glanced around, and saw he was on the street. In his anguish, he must have managed to stagger past the bustle of the first floor Congress building, and now he was back in the familiar, dusty, grimy No-Maj world, where he most likely belonged, and it was only a matter of time before Percival and everyone else realized it, and he would be back with Ma and the girls, and it would be like nothing good had ever happened to him ever.

He closed his eyes, taking a deep breath, holding it, letting it out evenly. It was just as well he’d managed to find his way outside. It was a crisp autumn afternoon, and the fresh air was bracing, startling him back into sense. He could compose himself out here, and work through whatever self-indulgent nonsense had driven him fleeing like a ninny.

He walked a little ways down the street and stepped into the mouth of a side street, out of the crowds. He put his hands on his knees, and slowly, painstakingly calmed his wild thoughts. 

He was being ridiculous. He needed to form a tougher skin. He wasn’t in Ma’s house anymore. He would have to learn how to roll with unexpected hurts, rather than run. 

Lusitania would probably tell Percival he’d left any moment now, and he’d upset him. He needed to get back in there. He turned to try and figure out how to go about doing that, as he realized with a sinking feeling the building itself probably had some magic that might make that endeavor complicated.

“Credence?"

Credence flinched in total shock. Ma was standing at the mouth of the side street, blocking his way out.

"Ma?" he said weakly. "What are—how did you."

"So he got tired of you already?" Ma said tersely, scowling. She seemed just as startled to see him as he was to see her. She glanced over her shoulder at the main street, then back at Credence, her lip curling. "I knew it was only a matter of time."

"What are you doing here?" Credence asked. His head was aching even worse. "Are you ministering near here? Where are the girls?" The thought of maybe getting to see Modesty and Chastity seemed like a wish.

"You mind your business, Credence Barebone," she snapped. She pulled her jacket tighter around her, one hand cradled to her chest. It was like she was holding something, perhaps one of the many bible tracts they would hand out at their ministry.

"Graves," he corrected without thinking.

Her head snapped up to look at him. "What did you say to me?"

"My name is Graves, now. Not Barebone anymore." He hadn't meant to mouth off, just repeating the truth of the last few days, but Ma looked infuriated. She marched a few steps forward and slapped him across the face.

It was like falling back into character. He let his head move with the blow, knowing if he objected it would be worse.

"You will never be more than a godforsaken abomination, and you know it, and I know it, and don't let a few days as a devil-man's whore change the truth about yourself," Ma bit out, a bt of spittle hitting Credence on the cheek. She glanced behind her again. Her hand had not left whatever was clutched to her, even when she'd slapped Credence.

Staring at the ground, Credence let the words wash over him, familiar in their nastiness. But he couldn't help asking once more, "What are you doing here?" 

 

She slapped him again, but her thumb caught her nose weirdly, giving a crunch, and that's when it happened.

It felt like a roaring that rose up from his toes and expanded out through his skin, crashing over everything with Credence powerless, his body losing solidity, a horrible black screaming bursting forth through every pore.

It was like that morning all over again, or the day before when Ma and then Percival had found Credence dazed and dust-covered on the street corner, except now it felt focused, like it was cocking its head, seeing Ma before him now as an adversary, as a target, ready to strike. Ma's eyes went wide, like she could see some kind of change come over Credence. She seemed to be saying something, but he couldn't hear her anymore, and then Credence, or the power that had taken control of Credence, descended upon him like a swarm of hate, and Credence’s vision began to grey.

“Credence!” 

Percival’s voice sent a shock through Credence’s body. The horrible power banked itself as quickly as it had risen. His body seemed to become corporal again in a rush, his vision clearing, and he stood dumbfounded, every cell in his body jittering painfully.

He looked up and saw Percival standing at the mouth of the side street. Lusitania and another Auror that Credence didn’t recognize were with him. Credence looked down and saw the wizard that had threatened him lying on his side, chest rising in shallow breaths.

He blinked, and looked down, and saw someone lying there. It took another second for his vision to clear, and he saw to this disoriented surprised that it was not Ma at his feet. It was a man, a wizard, a wand was on the ground near his outstretched fingers. He stared down at him, nonplussed, he realized he looked an awful lot like the screaming wizard from inside the Enforcement office. It didn't make sense. Where had Ma gone? Had he hallucinated the entire conversation?

He held a hand to his cheek where it was still warm from the slaps. It felt real.

“I didn’t mean to,” Credence said through numb lips, even though he wasn't even sure what he meant.

Percival didn’t appear to hear him. He looked at the Auror beside him. “I don’t think any No-Majs saw, the main street’s mostly empty.” 

The Auror nodded at the wizard on the ground. “That looks like Puddingworth. I knew he was trying to distract us. I didn’t even see him cast the spell.”

“You’d do well to pay better attention, or next time someone will get hurt beyond a useless thieving wizard,” Percival said sharply. He came to grab Credence by the arm. “Are you alright?” His voice was low, and Credence nodded, unsure if he really was okay or not, unable to stop the thoughtless motion.

Credence didn’t protest as Percival led him slightly deeper into the street. “We need to get back inside,” he said tersely. 

Credence nodded numbly again.

Percival led him back to the front of the Congress building, which he now noticed was disguised to look like an empty manufacturing plant. They slipped inside, and the endless motion and action of MACUSA greeted them. Credence was only half-aware.

Just like after the candle had exploded that morning, Credence felt _something_ within him.He wasn’t alone. It shifted, like a snake ready to split its skin, grown too big for its body, needing to expand. He didn’t know if it was magic. It seemed too angry for that. But whatever it was, it was like the veil that had previously kept it hidden was falling away. Credence could feel it waiting, impatiently, but willing to bide its time, just barely contained.

Percival had brought him back upstairs, and they were in his office again by the time Credence caught up. The door to the office slammed shut, and Credence gazed up at Percival, mystified to be back again, as though nothing had happened.

Percival looked ready to burst into flames, he was so livid.

“What in Medea’s seven damn hells were you doing out there?” he demanded sharply. 

Credence could only stare up at him, words lost, and think, helpless to say it out loud: _I might be a monster_.

 

* * *

 

Staring down at Credence’s pale, pinched face, Percival could feel himself rapidly losing control. He didn’t know how it had come to this, when the day had otherwise been going so well. 

He’d spent the better half of the day marveling at how sharp he felt. His mind had felt fiercer today, more analytic, ready for a challenge. He’d always had a good head for investigative strategy, and found even the most tedious of departmental procedures satisfying in a simple, mindless way, but today he’d found himself flying through approvals and reports, catching up easily on the mountain of tasks that had been awaiting his attention all week. He’d even pulled out a cold case that had foiled his department for over a month, and after a few minutes of study, decided to connect the unregistered wand used to stun a wizard shopkeeper in Queens to a witch they’d picked up three times over the last quarter for petty crimes. He’d sent Lusitania to coordinate an interview with a few other Aurors, and it turned into a breakthrough.

He felt at the top of his game. The entire time, he’d been conscious of a tug somewhere behind his ribcage, keeping him alert and focused on his work, while also keeping him grounded in the solid, comforting knowledge that he could walk out of his office and be with his bondmate in moments, where he waited safely in the main office with his assistant. That he _had_ a bondmate at all was still enough to marvel at, and it was Credence Graves. Unbelievable. Whatever worked, he supposed. And if his sharpened magic was anything to go by, Credence worked very, very well. 

And when Lusitania had stepped into his office moments before, looking troubled, she’d only needed to open her mouth and say, “Credence,” and Graves had known, instantly, that Credence had left the building and was in danger, like that tug in his chest had turned into a hook and was yanking him off the stage at a vaudeville show.

He’d stood up and Disapparated in one even movement without even pausing to tell Lusitania where in the hell he was going. He wasn't even sure where he'd been going, until he'd found himself in a side street outside the MACUSA building, staring at Credence, an unconscious wizard at his feet.

“What _happened_ out there?” Graves snapped now, Credence safe in his office and Graves ready for some serious answers. He moved closer, agitated, and only grew more frustrated when Credence stepped back. “Tell me.” 

“I needed air,” Credence managed to gulp out, “and when I got outside, I saw—there was." He swallowed, and he glanced away, down and to the side. "That wizard, he tried to rob me.”

It wasn't unbelievable. It fit Puddingworth’s MO, and Graves had no doubt that the criminal might have managed to cast a Distracting charm while in the bullpen earlier and slip out through the side of the office before the Aurors had realized they’d been left with a decoy. But that still didn’t explain why Credence had left the building himself in the first place.

“Why were you—Credence, this is a building filled with Aurors, and with Aurors arresting criminals! You need to be more careful.”

“I didn’t think—”

“You _need_ to think!” Graves interrupted, reminding himself of his father in the worst way, but too beset by worry from finding Credence, pale and unsteady, with a known wizard criminal at his feet, to correct himself. 

“Don’t yell at me,” Credence choked out. 

“I’m not yelling!” Graves yelled, and cut himself off. He ran his hands through his hair. 

"What a waste of resources,” Graves muttered to himself mindlessly. "Lusitania had to pull an Auror from an interview to assit."

“My apologies,” Credence said stiffly. He was staring fixedly at the ground, head bowed sharply. 

Graves rolled his eyes at his own verbal clumsiness. “I didn’t mean—Hell.” He swallowed, and realized for the first time that he was practically looming over Credence’s hunched form. He had somehow backed Credence against the wall.

“I’ll try to be less useless,” Credence muttered. He sounded a strange mix of forlorn and bitter. It made something in Graves snap. 

He grasped Credence roughly at the join where his neck met his shoulder, the lack of any point of contact between them suddenly becoming intolerable. 

“Don’t say—not that. But you must take more care.”

Credence nodded without looking up. Staring at the crown of his head, Graves felt like snarling. Instead, he managed to take on a lecturing, condescending tone he despised but also seemed unable to shake, not with Credence refusing to meet his eye, cowering as though Graves were some bully like his _mother_ —“Credence, I’m being serious, you _must_ —” 

At once, Credence’s chin snapped up. He nearly clipped Graves in the chin, they were standing so close. “I’m not a fool. I understand.”

But he didn’t seem to, not really, not if he was angry. Graves shook his head slightly, insisting, “No, Credence. You need to understand—you’re. You must take care. That is to say,” he ground his teeth, annoyed at himself. He wished there was some way to say _you’re special to me_ without blurting it outright like a lovelorn idiot. “You’re _important_.” 

Credence glared at some point just over Graves’ shoulder. “I _know_. I’m your bondmate. I bring strength to your name.”

“That’s _not_ it,” Graves bit out. He flexed his fingers against Credence’s skin, hauling him closer so his nose grazed the tip of Credence’s nose. Credence shivered. “Credence,” he muttered helplessly, because Credence still didn’t understand. Graves hardly understood himself.

He felt Credence’s fingertips curl around his elbows, holding Graves close. Credence was holding his breath, like he was waiting. It was Graves he needed.

He pulled back just enough to swoop in, catching Credence’s mouth with his own. They both went still at the contact, lips barely touching. Credence puffed out a breath, making a small, shocked sound.

Graves set his forearms on the wall on either side of Credence’s face, caging him in so he could better control the angle, licking inside his mouth, dragging a rough kiss up his cheek to his brow, back down again to tangle their tongues together. Credence seemed content to let his head fall against the wall and allow Graves to take, but that wasn’t enough, not at all. Graves wanted him pushing back, _needing_ , like he had been the night before. 

 _Want me back_ , something low and angry hissed in his head, _want me just for this, not for anything else_ , and as though Credence heard the silent plea, he moaned, finally lifting his head to chase the taste of Graves on his tongue. He wondered if it would always be like this between them, the need and wanting rising up so fast, almost without warning.

His cock aching, Graves pressed closer against Credence with a groan. He kicked Credence’s feet roughly apart so he could press a leg in between, driving his knee up to press firmly against where he could feel Credence growing hard as well.

“Percival,” Credence whispered, breathless, unsure, but Graves quieted him with a murmur, bringing a hand down to grip him tightly on the hip and urge him to ride his leg more fully. Hesitantly, Credence rocked his hips, and Graves watched with satisfaction as his eyes went wide. Hungrily, Credence pressed down again, and again, until he was grinding down instinctively, mouth hanging open at the sensation, nails digging into Graves’ arms like talons, driving them both into a punishing, heavy, hungry rhythm, single-mindedly rubbing off on one another.

When Credence came, he squeezed Graves tight in a nearly strangling embrace, like he was trying to make them into one. Graves found himself muttering nonsense, trying to calm him, and trying to silently assure himself that this was normal, that this was an early bond, that this what all bondmates felt in the early days. He reached into his pants and jerked himself off with a few rough strokes, acutely aware that Credence was watching every move, his mouth hanging open, enthralled.

“I was worried about you,” Graves admitted gruffly as they caught their breath, still leaning into one another, still against the wall.

“I didn’t mean to worry you.”

They looked at each other, both slightly unsure how or if they could move on from this, but also equally remorseful for their part.

Graves sighed and finally stepped away. He cleaned the come from their clothes with a careless Sourgify spell, and thanked the architects of this building that his office carried a perpetual Silencing spell. 

“Since you can’t be trusted to behave yourself out there with Lusitania,” Graves said mildly, smiling slightly to show he was mostly joking, “you’ll sit here with me. I’ve got a few books on magical history you might find interesting, and I can finish up my reports before we head to the wand store.” 

He pulled out an older edition of History of Magic: Vol. 3 from his shelves, and handed it to Credence. It was heavy, and he saw Credence step back, still looking vaguely confused and out of sorts.

Unable to resist, he pressed a firm kiss to Credence’s temple, trying to settle him. Credence exhaled shakily.

“Bold,” he muttered, voice still weak but attempting to echo Graves from earlier, and Graves barked out a surprised laugh. 

“Go on, you troublemaker,” he said, and pushed Credence toward a chair near the windowsill.

Credence settled carefully, enormous tome cradled in his lap. He quickly became engrossed, and Graves was free to study him silently for a moment or two before turning back to his own report, still slightly shaken, but strangely more focused now that he knew for sure Credence was safe and within arm’s reach.

As they sat in companionable silence, Graves couldn’t shake the feeling that something had shifted. He’d never felt that sort of pointed, panicked worry before, and he wasn’t sure he liked it.

But more than that, as he kept glancing at Credence out of the corner of his eye, he wondered, for the first time, if there was something he was missing.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I meant to get this posted yesterday, but it took a bit to work this chapter into what I wanted it to be. hope it was worth the slight delay. :) I plan to have chapter 6 up tomorrow afternoon, and then probably not another update until after the weekend.
> 
> I wanted to thank everyone for all their lovely comments and notes. I can't tell you how much I appreciate it! I still owe some people replies, but I figured I'd get this up first. I appreciate you dudes, FBAWTF fandom! <3 <3 <3


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW for brief descriptions of an animal death.

* * * 

 

Almost as soon as Credence decided he felt cautiously comfortable in his new life was when, without warning, on an otherwise unremarkable day in October, Ma unexpectedly agreed to a meeting between Credence and his sisters.

Percival had been making the request of Ma every week since their bonding, at Credence’s urging, and each time she insisted the girls were too busy, or the Second Salemers needed the extra hands at a ministry meeting. Credence had begun to despair that he would ever see them again, but Percival was persistent.

“Money has a way of making people fall into line,” he merely replied, and sure enough, nearly a month after their bonding, a note had appeared by owl after Percival had sent yet another request for a visit.

He couldn’t quite believe that he would be able to see his sisters for first time since his bonding, and suspected that Percival had threatened to cut off the money he’d been sending to Ma. But like much in his new life, he decided there was no reason to dwell, and the only way forward was through, and immediately began planning how to make the encounter as non-magical as possible. He declined the usual magical self-wheeling cart and requesting the girls be picked up by car, not wanting to do anything that Ma might see as inappropriate or a bad influence, or worse, pressuring them to choose Ma over him, so she wouldn’t feel threatened and possibly prevent the girls from visiting in the future.

But as Credence sat across from Modesty and Charity in their threadbare, austere dresses, faces thin and wan-looing and pale, he found himself keenly aware of Percival’s opinions that Modesty and Chastity themselves might also be magical, or come from magical families at least. He wondered if they, unlike him, had already been experiencing magical abilities of some kind and were keeping them secret from Ma. 

He became aware the silence was stretching, oddly ill-at-ease with his sisters before him. He pushed a plate of delicate miniature muffins closer to Modesty. “The ones with sesame taste like candy,” he offered temptingly.

Modesty's eyes lit up, but before she could reach out, Chastity stilled her hand. “No sweets,” she told her. She made an apologetic face at Credence. “You know how Ma is. She’ll smell our breath when we get home to see if there’s any sugar.” 

Credence sighed. He did indeed know what Ma was like, or at least remembered her rigid ways. It was just he hadn’t quite expected her influence to extend quite to boldly into the Graves’ sitting room. Maybe he should have.

“Thank you for having us visit today, Credence,” Chastity said politely. She took a sip of her unsweetened tea. “Ma said she could hardly spare us, but in the end I think she worries you’re lonely without us.” It sounded rehearsed. He wondered if Ma had given them a script.

“I’m not lonely.” It irked him that Ma was telling the girls that. He watched with amusement how Modesty kicked her feet in the air absently, letting her foot knock into Chastity knee every few swings, and the way Chastity stoically ignored the annoyance. They were good girls. He smiled. “I do miss you girls, though. Very, very much.” 

“Ma said you wouldn’t have time for us once you were living in sin,” Modesty said jovially. She glanced at Chastity, and satisfied her sister wasn’t looking, grabbed a tiny cucumber sandwich off a plate and stuffed it in her mouth.

“You’re welcome to eat all you want, the food is for you,” Credence told Modesty helplessly, unsure why his sisters, who were both clearly hungry, were taking such pains to keep from eating. “And Mr. Graves and I are not living in sin.” 

“But you’re both men,” Chastity pointed out gravely. 

“And you’re not married,” Modesty chimed in, mouth full, pointedly glancing away from Chastity's disapproving frown. 

Credence paused. They had him backed into a corner there. “The rules are different in this world.”

“The world of witchcraft, you mean,” Chastity said carefully.

“Witchcraft is a sin,” Modesty said knowingly. 

“Do you even know what witchcraft is?” Credence asked. It was never something they talked about in much detail at Ma’s house, aside from the generalities of sin and hellfire and damnation.

Modesty mulled it over, then shrugged. “It’s a sin.” She made a face clearly asking _what more do you need?_ She nudged Chastity. “You really should try one of the muffins, they’re terrific.”

“You eat another muffin and you’re in trouble,” Chastity said, Older Sister Voice in full force. 

“Just _try_ one, come on,” Modesty whined, and they seemed set to devolve into a squabble, when the door to the sitting room swung open. Credence turned to see Percival hovering in the doorway.

“I brought chocolate frogs,” he said, an unreadable expression on his face, holding up a tray absolutely overloaded with the sweet frog-shaped delicacy he’d shown Credence the week before.

Credence frowned. “ _Regular_ frogs, Mr. Graves?” The ones they’d enjoyed together had hopped across the table. 

“Of course,” Percival insisted with an exaggerated roll of his eyes. He wasn’t of a mind that the girls needed to be shielded from an abundance of magical experiences, especially if it might be their birthright, but as Credence had insisted: they were eleven and six. They could stand for a little shielding.

He brought the tray to the table and set it down, smiling as Modesty and Chastity visibly quivered at the sight of the shiny chocolate treats, which sat thankfully still. Credence decided to lead by example and picked one up. “They’re really good,” he said, and bit into it.

“He ate nearly a dozen in one sitting last week,” Percival told the girls, unhelpfully in Credence’s opinion. 

“Mr. Graves,” Credence muttered, flushing.

“Maybe a little more than a dozen,” Percival said teasing. He wiped at the corner of Credence’s mouth where some chocolate must have smeared. As always, the tender carelessness of his touch made Credence blush. He met Percival’s appreciative gaze and blushed more.

He became aware of how avidly the girls were watching the exchange and cleared his throat. “It was only seven,” he said primly. 

Modesty frowned. “That’s gluttony.”

Chastity looked impressed, however, and boldly snagged a frog before Modesty could intervene. She gobbled it down and smiled. “It’s delicious.” 

Credence smiled at his younger sister, and the smile only grew deeper as he saw Modesty out of the corner of his eye as she pinched a tiny smidgen of one frog and surreptitiously slipped it into his mouth. His chest felt full. He looked up at Percival, who was watching him, face arrested. 

Percival gave a shake. “I’m intruding. I’ll leave you to it.” He started backing away. “I’ll be back to bring the girls home at the end of the hour.”

“You’re not intruding,” Credence insisted, but Percival had already bowed his way out of the door. Credence shook his head, unsure what on earth had gotten into the man. 

“He’s a little strange,” Modesty said, eyeing where Percival had left.

“He is, a little,” Credence muttered distractedly, still looking at the door through which his bondmate had left.

Modesty hummed thoughtfully. “He’s quite a looker, though.” 

Chastity gasped, scandalized, “Modesty! That’s just—Ma would. Your _language_.” 

“Ma’s not here,” Modesty said, whipping her head around sharply to glare at Chastity. “And he _is_ handsome. So. I don’t see why we should lie about it.”

“You shouldn’t notice a man’s looks. It’s not spiritual.” 

“You sound like Ma.”

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“Hey, now,” Credence put in faintly. He didn’t like how quickly they were winding up into an argument. He certainly didn’t like the strained look on Chastity's face. But it did give him an opening. He bit his lip, deciding to redirect while he had the chance. “How are things at home with Ma, these days?”

He saw Modesty's mouth turn down sullenly, still frustrated by her tiff with Chastity, no doubt. “What do you care? You live in a castle now. It doesn’t concern you.”

Chastity hastened to intervene, pasting a stiff smile on. “It’s really mostly the same, not much has changed. We’re still very busy, ministering on society’s ills, the dangers that lurk all around us, that sort of thing,” she said airily. 

Modesty threw a puzzled glance her sister’s way. “We hardly minister at all anymore,” she said, perplexed.

“That’s not true, we just went last week,” Chastity argued back.

“That wasn’t ministering. We sat outside for hours while Ma met with those odd people. We didn’t hand out a single leaflet.”

“What kind of meeting?” Credence asked. 

“I suppose it was with other chapters of the Second Salemers,” Chastity said carefully.

That didn’t make sense. He’d hardly met anyone else in the Second Salemers but Ma and a few older women who used to help serve soup to the orphans but stopped abruptly several years prior. “I wasn’t aware there were other chapters." 

She smoothed her dress down over her knees. “Ma has been able to have greater success growing the movement with the help from your gentleman friend.”

Putting that troubling thought to one side, Credence changed gears. “And is she—she treats you both alright?” He found he was holding his breath for the answer. She’d always had a soft spot for the girls. He figured at worst she might scold them more frequently, but the worst he’d ever seen was Ma giving Modesty a spanking for lying when she was three or four. She’d always saved the worst for Credence. But if Credence wasn’t there now—

“You don’t need to worry about us,” Chastity said after a moment. She smiled at Credence. She looked tired, too tired for eleven. “Honestly.

When he looked to Modesty, she looked frank, unsettling so for seven years old. “She’s right. No need to waste your time fretting over us, not with your new life here.” She glanced around the sitting room, taking in every lush detail. Credence couldn’t tell if she resented what she saw, or coveted it, or both. “It seems nice.”

Regardless, he played the last card he had. “If things become too difficult there, you could come and live here with me and Mr. Graves.”

Chastity looked honestly shocked at the offer. “We could never leave Ma.” 

“Yes, you could, I’m sure if I asked him, Mr. Graves could easily—”

“She’d be all alone.”

What did it _matter_ if Ma was alone, Credence wanted to shout at them both, to shake Chastity until just a little of her true feelings broke through. He remembered feeling stuck there too, like he would always owe Ma for the things she’d given him, a giant ledger constantly stacked in his favor, but the longer he was away, the clearer it was that his mind had been completely clouded by her influence, like a fever that made it nearly impossible to reason, to _think_. He spent so much time trying to rationalize the way she was, sometimes even as she was demanding he remove his very belt so she could beat him, and now he’d escaped and he could look back, eyes clear, and realize it had always been a hopeless task. 

“I know you and Ma had your differences,” Chastity said cautiously. She was running both hands over her skirt, smoothing it restlessly over and over. Chastity was watching her anxiously. “But she saved our lives. She took us from nothing and gave us a home, a family, and most importantly she saved our souls from sin.” 

Modesty seemed less enthused, but dutifully echoed, “She saved us.” 

“We don’t know why she took us in,” Credence attempted, puzzled. Ma may have spoken that way, but as siblings they’d rarely echoed those thoughts to one another in private before. 

Chastity shook her head. “We must have faith in her, Credence.” She sounded remarkably like Ma. What a difference a few weeks had made. Credence realized Ma had redirected her focus on the girls, but not in the way he’d anticipated. 

Briefly, Credence felt like he was fifteen again, his knees aching and sore from undertaking hours of mandatory silent reflection in the basement of the old factory where they used to live, his back still raw from a belting. Chastity would sometimes sneak down to bring him water, but she would seem baffled, asking why he couldn’t simply _behave_. Wearily, he had silently wondered why he needed to behave so much more stringently than the girls.

Modesty had never been allowed to come downstairs when Credence was in such a state.

As a result of the sufferings of his childhood, Credence had never really been able to summon the kind of faith that seemed to suffuse Chastity, or even Modesty, for all her prickliness. It had always been harder for him to see his life as anything but something to be endured. He had assumed the difference came in the type of lives they’d been allotted, in how unquestioningly Ma had separated Credence from the girls, the sinful from the faithful, and treated them accordingly. He could only hope the girls would stay ensconced in that category.

They sat without speaking for a while longer. When their tea was gone, Credence began gathering up the cups, needing something to break up the stilted distance that had built up between them.

“What’s this?” Modesty was holding his wand between her thumb and pointer finger, eyes wide as she examined it. She must have been snooping while the cups had distracted Credence. 

The sight of the wand in Modesty's hand was like walking down a flight of stairs and missing the final step, breathless and panicked all at once. 

“Give that to me,” he said sharply. He grabbed it roughly from her hands.

Chastity was watching him sharply, and for a moment Credence was ashamed until he remembered where they were, what _he_ was, now.

Modesty looked deeply intrigued. “What is that thing?” she asked.

It scared him to see Modesty with the wand, just as the wand itself scared him, just as his own strange magic scared him, but he found he didn’t have it in him to lie to her. He wasn’t Ma. 

“Modesty,” he said carefully. “Do you understand the world I’m a part of? The world you might be a part of?” 

“Credence, stop this,” Chastity said sharply, but he pushed on, talking right over her. 

“Mr. Graves has made me a part of a truly fantastical world, filled with magic.” 

“Magic is evil,” Modesty parroted, but it felt automatic. She was hanging on Credence’s every word.

“Magic isn’t good or evil. It just is.” 

“That’s blasphemy,” Chastity insisted.

Credence knelt before his sisters, gently taking Modesty's hand. He didn’t push for the same from Chastity, but she didn’t move away, listening intently even as she resisted. 

“I think Ma picked us because we were different. She didn’t want us to be raised by our real families, so she took us. I don’t think it had to do with faith or God’s love. I don’t think it had anything to do with love at all.” 

“You sound like a madman, Credence,” Chastity whispered, fearful.

“Magic is evil,” Modesty said again. “Witchcraft is the devil.”

He felt tongue-tied, the perfect argument just out of reach. He wished he could say, somehow, that magic itself was not the issue. That nothing Ma or her church said could be trusted anyway, because it didn’t care about any of them individually. He watched them both frown at him, confused and afraid, and knew he was losing them. Ma was too strong. Everything he was telling them must sound like witchcraft. 

“Girls,” he said, voice choked, “my girls, _listen_ to me. I’m not asking you to abandon anything. But if you ever need a place to go—I’m here. I’ll always be here.” It was what he’d wished to have when he was younger and things were bleaker: a place to escape. Only he had that now, and he just wished he could steal away his sisters here forever. 

“Credence,” Percival said from the doorway. Credence and his sisters all startled, turning to look at him. Percival looked chagrined. “I’m sorry to interrupt, but it’s been an hour. The girls need to be getting home.”

Chastity shot up from her seat. “We can’t be late!” she said fearfully. She pulled Modesty to her feet. “Come, we must leave.” But then she paused to look up at Credence, eyes torn. “Thank you for having us today, Credence,” she said dutifully.

He put his hand on her shoulder, squeezing gently. “You are always welcome here.”

Beside him, Modesty swallowed, and threw herself at him. He caught her under the arms and lifted her up, hugging her close. She wasn’t crying, Modesty never cried, but she was breathing choppily, clearly unhappy. 

“I’ll pray for you,” she whispered into his collar. 

Credence was never any good at prayer, but he found himself murmuring, “And I’ll pray for you, too,” anyway. He set her on her feet and watched Chastity take her hand to lead her away.

Percival was watching him. “Credence,” he said softly. “Are you well?”

“Get them home safely, please.” His voice sounded rough. “Can you give them something so they can communicate with us if they need to? A charm of some kind?”

“Yes, of course.” Percival touched his elbow. “I’ll figure something out. We’ll look out for them.”

Credence nodded, mouth twisting. Percival seemed to want to say more, but he just sighed and turned to take the girls out to the car. 

From his spot on the sofa, Credence couldn’t help feeling like he was letting them return to a viper’s den, and he was letting them go, just watching them walk to their doom.

 

* * *

Something was wrong with Credence, and Graves had no idea how to make it right.

It was driving him slowly insane. What was the point of a magical bond anyway if it didn’t ultimately give you some kind of competitive advantage when it came to emotional problem-solving? It was nonsense, really, and he refused to stand for it.

Ever since he’d driven Credence’s sisters back to the dreary abandoned church where they lived with their horrid mother, it was like a cloud hung over Credence, and by extension, over Graves himself. He’d even been sure to give the girls the charmed necklace, as Credence had requested, and told them the rules. That if they were ever in trouble or needed Credence, they only had to hold the necklace.

It was a simple Summoning charm, but the older one, Chastity, had looked at Graves like he had given her a volume of pure X-rated smut. She’d spun away, dropping the necklace, but the younger one, Modesty, had picked it up.

“Tell Credence I’m sorry we made him upset,” she said mournfully, and hurried after Chastity into the church.

Graves had gone back to the estate intending to the deliver the message, but then he’d seen Credence hunched over in the study and decided to put a pin in it. The young man had suffered enough for one day. He decided to let him bounce back a little. 

But Credence didn’t bounce back. The shadows under his eyes, the way he sometimes stared into nothing for long stretches of time, they only increased. Graves would ask if he was alright, and Credence would start and nod, and change the subject, and Graves would be left just as ineffectual and flat-footed at making it all right again as he ever was.

It was intolerable. Not least of which because up until Credence's sisters had visited, everything had been going so _well_.

In fact, the only dark spot on their bonding had been Credence’s sadness that his sisters hadn’t visited, and Percival had arranged it all as a _gift_. He’d wanted to make Credence even _happier_ , building on the way he’d begun smiling more easily, his rawboned face starting to fill out, even his skin gaining a permanent sort of healthy color, and while he’d probably never have the posture of a soldier, he tended to stand straighter now. Not to mention that Credence was also providing the spectacular source of regular sex Graves had experienced from one person in fifteen years, so he had a further vested interest to keep his bondmate happy and content, as mercenary a motive as it might seem from the outside. 

So he’d resumed his arguments via owl mail with Mary Lou for over a week (who possessed nearly endless disdain for that type of communication, but also didn’t seem to be entirely unfamiliar with it, which Graves took note of with interest) and what a mess he’d made of it all. He felt like he’d lost all expertise he might have gained in the uncertain world of bonding and was back to feeling like a tenderfoot once more.

It was infuriating.

He decided there was no other choice but to keep Credence by his side until whatever this melancholy was cleared itself up, and if that meant bringing him nearly every day to the MACUSA offices, ostensibly to cheer him up but also because Graves just worried less when Credence was nearby, so be it. Credence didn’t actively object at least, so along he went. 

Thankfully, the sight of Credence following just at Graves’ shoulder as they walked through the main section of the MACUSA building had by that point become so commonplace hardly anyone glanced their way.

In the Enforcement office itself, Credence had long become a fixture, the sight of him in curled into a chair or at an unused desk, quietly devouring another enormous tome (Magical American History 1300-1475,or something else dry enough to make Graves make a face) not enough to make any Auror nearby bat an eyelash. A few of them had even taken to leaving him books they thought he'd enjoy, and Credence happily consumed them with his other volumes. He was so voracious that Graves had eventually taken him to the magical city library to get him a card; he was bulldozing through the available historical material at the estate so quickly it was almost a slight against the ancient, carefully-curated family library. 

Which was another thing his mind couldn’t stop picking at—he’d more or less quietly relocated most of his clothes and other belongings piecemeal from his small apartment in the city to his quarters with Credence at the estate. At the very least, Silas was thrilled to have them both at home, and Credence seemed to blossom under the old man’s earnest attentions. That alone felt more important than the heightened privacy his apartment provided, or the distance he still sometimes craved from his father.

He wasn’t sure what that meant, and he was reluctant to truly interrogate his own motives.

It also wasn’t escaping Graves’ notice that for all his hungry reading of historical texts of obscure magical events and traditions, he hadn’t caught Credence actually performing any magic in the entire of month of their bonding. He didn’t even seem to like carrying his wand around, even though Graves had been sure to register it with the proper MACUSA authorities as soon as they’d visited the wand shop in the first place. 

When Graves carefully enquired with his father, who had maintained responsibility for Credence’s instruction, Silas brushed off his concern. 

“He’s coming along,” he assured Graves vaguely, preparing for his annual trip to visit several old childhood friends. “You worry too much.”

Graves kept meaning to bring it up directly with Credence, but the other, completely distracting and downright alarming thing was, Graves didn’t want to further upset him more than he wanted to get to the bottom of it all.

But now, a week after his sister had visited, it was the very limit. They were in his office, and Graves had stood to go retrieve a file from a cabinet on the other end of the room. From an armchair in the corner where he was reading, Credence released a morose sigh. 

Perhaps he only exhaled. Maybe it was the wind. Graves would never know for sure, because that was when his building frustration came to a head and he finally snapped. Whirling around, he burst out, “Damnit, Credence, I don’t want you seeing your family anymore.”

Credence looked up from his book, blinking owlishly. “What?” 

Graves took a breath, attempting to recover from his outburst. “I just think that perhaps staying in contact with your family isn’t a good idea, if they upset you this much.” 

“What are you saying? I can’t see my sisters anymore?” Credence had gone from politely confused to panicked in a split second, and Graves was beginning to suspect he’d made a terrible error. 

“No, that’s not what I’m saying—”

“Because you can’t keep them from me! You don’t have that right!” 

That was just untrue, and Graves would argue to his death that it was merely accuracy that drove him to exclaim, “Madea’s cunt, I do have that right, and how dare you suggest otherwise! I am the director of this department, of the enforcement of magic in this entire country, and I can do whatever I want!”

With that breathtakingly unconstitutional statement hovering in the air, Graves painstakingly attempted to regroup, but Credence had gone red in the face.

“How dare you threaten me!”

“I’m not threatening you, I just think—we should have Obliviated that damned family of yours when we had the chance in the beginning,” Graves fumed. Graves tried not to look too eager at the prospect, even though Merlin knew Graves was itching at the chance to Obliviate Mary Lou’s mind to a steaming crisp, although he’d take more care with the girls. 

He’d been out of his mind let the three of them wander from the estate without being properly Obliviated in the first place. At the time, like a weakling, he’d let the mere suggestion of Credence frowning make him go against his instincts, against the damn _law_ , but after enduring a week of moping and unhappiness caused by that very family, Graves wished he could go back in time and kick his former self right in the cock for the fool he was. 

“You can’t do that,” Credence sputtered, although he didn’t seem sure. How could he be, Graves thought darkly, he’d barely been a wizard long enough to have a wand, let alone argue the specifics of MACUSA procedure, but that didn’t seem to be stopping him. “You can’t just Obliviate my family.” He shot to his feet, glaring. 

Graves ran both hands through his hair, no doubt making a mess of it in his frustration. “You’re blinded by their influence. You’d be better off without them.”

“Are you threatening to take my family from me, just because I’ve been blue?” Credence demanded incredulously. His voice started to shake by the end of it.

Goblin’s tits, Graves had somehow managed to step in it again, he realized darkly.

“Mary Lou is not your family,” he snapped back, annoyed that Credence insisted on giving her that kind of power. 

Credence threw his hands in the are, like he couldn't believe Graves was insisting on being such an idiot. “You don’t understand _anything_.” 

“I highly doubt that,” Graves said snidely. 

And then Credence burst out with, “The Statute of Secrecy is just an excuse that witches and wizards use to sublimate the non-magical class!”

Somehow, Graves noted with no little awe, Credence had managed to articulate the exact argument used by Grindelwald and his group of fanatics, albeit to completely different rhetorical ends, which was both unsettling and fascinating in equal measures. 

But then he caught sight of the pile of Credence’s latest reading material, waiting unassumingly by the armchair, and Graves rolled his eyes at the familiar cover. He knew he shouldn’t have let Credence wander alone last time they were at the magical library, but Graves had had case files to oversea, and he hardly wanted to feel like he was hovering over his bondmate’s shoulder.

“Ah, I see you’ve begun reading Crossfold and his radical baloney,” he said witheringly instead. 

“It’s not baloney,” Credence yelled. “You’re just prejudiced, and old-fashioned.” 

Graves gaped, speechless. He’d never minded Crossfold’s theories in the past, and had argued them capably when called upon at school, but as Credence stood seething at him, Graves stubbornly decided Crossfold was a crackpot who had put quill to parchment three hundred years ago with the sole intention of driving a wrench into Graves’ bond, the long-con planning old fool. 

“You watch yourself,” he blustered, and was reminded unpleasantly of several similar arguments he’d had with Silas that had followed a similar pattern, wincing, because Credence was his _bondmate_ , not his son, Madea’s fucking head, what was _happening_.

“It’s unethical to interfere with another person’s memories,” Credence was lecturing imperiously, “and if you Obliviated another wizard without his consent, you’d be arrested.” 

Damn you, Crossfold, Graves silently growled, recognizing the wizard’s central theoretical argument. A little knowledge truly was a dangerous thing.

“If you’re that passionate about magical ethical theory, we’ll add it to your studies with my father, or find a tutor,” Graves said firmly. “But we’re not talking about that right now. We’re talking about what in the seven hells has been upsetting you since your sisters visited, and I refuse to be distracted from that point.”

Credence’s hands went to fists at his side as he glared just over Graves’ shoulder. “It’s nothing,” he bit out.

“It’s _something_. Tell me. Please, Credence.” And now he’d been reduced to begging, mother of Merlin.

“You don’t own my thoughts!” Credence burst out. “I don’t owe you every secret in my soul, not yet anyway.” 

They glared at each other in furious silence.

The worst part was, Credence looked magnificent in high fury. His shoulders were thrown back, his chest heaving, cheeks red, staring down at his nose at Graves like Graves was a dung beetle at his feet. He looked defiant and sure of himself, and slightly frightening, somehow.

There was the oddest glow about him, like the very edges of his person were beginning to smoke, almost turning into little black wisps. It must be a trick of the light, Graves decided.

And even like this, unfamiliar and slightly threatening, he was still the most compelling thing Graves had ever seen, and he was drawn to him like a magnet, even as he wanted to throttle him.

He wasn’t even sure what he was saying in response, only that he would be _damned_ if Credence got the last word. “No one, least of all me, wants to be mired in your thoughts,” he said coldly, too coldly, he sounded possessed, but he was too infuriated to care. “I merely ask to be kept abreast of things that might threaten our bond.”

The fight seemed to evaporate from Credence in an instant.

“Our _bond_ is fine,” he said coldly. “You don’t have to worry.”

Before Graves could Credence had grown quite competent with the floo network over the past month, and so before Graves could open his mouth to protest, Credence had grabbed a handful of powder from the bin by the fireplace and thrown it into the flames. 

He stepped in and said clearly, staring hotly at Graves, “Graves Estate,” and disappeared into the flames.

Graves was left opening and closing his mouth in an empty office. He huffed, wondering how where in the hell that had gone off the rails, and stomped to his desk, throwing himself angrily into the chair. 

He snatched a file at random from the pile on his desk and flipped it open with livid force. His eyes scanned unseeingly over the file as he continued to angrily replay their argument in this mind over and over. It took him several minutes to focus, and then suddenly a word caught his eye. 

Obscurus.

It was a word he hadn’t heard since his years at Ilvermorny, and even then only in the context of a magical theory course. 

He realized he wasn’t even sure what file he was reading and glanced at the cover. _Recent Property Destruction, Lower Manhattan, Possible Theories_. It was a case file from Auror Benjamin, another fine example of diligent research. He’d expanded on the working theory of a magical creature, possibly an Erumpent. There were at least three pages more of possible explanations, and Graves reread them all, coming back to the Obscurus theory with interest. 

An Obscurus was only one possible explanation, and it was listed toward the bottom, almost a throwaway. Many Aurors would be embarrassed to even suggest such an outlandish possibility, but Auror Benjamin was meticulous, and had included it in the final section, entitled “Other Sources, Various”. There hadn’t been a recorded case of an Obscurus in America for generations.

It would seem far-fetched, and Graves was ready put it aside as a theory, but then he saw the next file in the pile, just by happenstance, was labeled: _New Salem Philanthropic Society, Current Information_. Auror Adenkabi had been less than eager to take on surveillance of the group, but it seemed he had diligently turned in his working case file as well. 

Graves didn’t open it, however. His mind was already working. 

Why had Mary Lou gone to such trouble to take in children from magical backgrounds? It had seemed like an accident of fate from afar, but after interacting with Modesty and Chastity, he was sure they were of magical descent as well. How had Mary Lou found them all, and why had she seen fit to corral them into an ill-fitting family group of which she seemed to hold no true fondness, anyway?

Graves thought of the hoards of orphan children the Second Salemers fed in exchange for assistance with their mission.

Something slotted into place in his mind, and the hairs on his arms stood up like they always did when he made a breakthrough on a case.

He carefully shut the file on the property damages and stacked it with the file on the Second Salemers. He set them aside, regarding them both, brooding.

One thing was immediately clear: Credence couldn’t know about any of this, not yet. If he knew, he’d be off to rescue his sisters in the bat of a goblin’s eye, and Graves needed to gather more information to prove his theory correct before bringing it to Benjamin and the other Aurors, to say nothing of alerting Picquery or other MACUSA officials.

What he needed most was an in, an opportunity to gather evidence from the inside, and it was with that realization that he began to consider something he had long resisted and even now felt uneasy contemplating. He pushed the guilt down low, to be dealt with later after Credence and the city of New York was safe from this threat.

Slowly, tentatively, a plan began to form in his mind. 

He tried to think of it as an unfortunate necessity, and as long as he kept it secret, Credence might never even have to know athe truth. This way, he could make amends with Credence and also finalize his case against Mary Lou, and no one, especially Credence, would be the wiser until after Graves had solved the case. He needed to keep this from Credence for his own emotional stability, if not his physical protection. 

That was what he told himself, at least, and what he forced his mind to accept, for now. Even if everything within his bond was suddenly squirming uncomfortably at the idea.

 

 * * * 

 

That day, Credence killed a bird. 

He didn’t mean to kill it. He came back from the MACUSA offices, absolutely seething, landing roughly in the second study that held the only floo fireplace in the entire house. He went stalking out into the great hallway as soon as his feet hit the ground, no destination in mind, merely needing someplace to stew. 

He’d found himself storming out into the back courtyard. There was an elaborate stone water fountain back here with the image of a team of horses rearing up on their hind legs carved into the backsplash. The horses occasionally whinnied and threw back their heads, but otherwise seemed sleepy and lazy in the sun. Birds loved to gather here, and during free afternoons he’d come down to watch them bathe. 

He stomped to a halt, glaring at the birds gathered on the edge of the fountain, pecking delicately at the water and preening their feathers.

He glowered at one in particular, settling on it arbitrarily, a flashy cardinal who kept flitting about, landing on one edge of the fountain only to turn and flutter back to his original spot.

It seemed so blissful and merry, and suddenly Credence hated it more than he’d ever hated anything, just for its audacity of being able to fly away. He was hit with an urgent need to _destroy_ , hissed by a voice he didn’t recognize as his own.

There was a loud popping sound, and the bird dropped to the gravel path beneath the water fountain like it had been shot out of the air.

A sucking gasp escaped his mouth as he stood in shock, staring at the bird on the ground. 

The other birds at the fountain immediately fled in a flurry of wings.

Feeling numb, he crept closer, crouching to better see what he had seemingly wrought. 

It was definitely dead. It looked like it had been scorched, its beak and eyes scarred black. It smelled awful. Its tiny feet were curled uselessly like it was still holding on to an invisible branch. 

Credence scrambled to his feet, stumbling away in time to vomit off the path into the rosebushes.

He was hurrying back into the main building before he’d realized he’d turned around.

He passed room after room sightlessly, practically running by the time he reached the quarters he shared with Percival. 

He put his back to the floor and slid to the ground, his head ringing.

Every time Credence attempted to perform magic, it came out wrong, dark and deformed. He’d long begun to dread picking up his wand during his daily lessons with Silas. Whenever a wand was in his hand, it was as though a channel was opened, and Credence worried he would not be able to control if the darkness decided to escape. 

But the longer Credence remained bonded to Percival, the stronger his magic became, and in turn the stronger the _thing_ inside him grew by turns, the more it felt like it was becoming impatient, unwilling to be restrained to simple charms levitating books across the room or transfiguring a footrest into a rock. It wanted more. 

Silas refused to comment on it directly, and Credence was shamefully grateful for his obfuscation.

And now he’d managed to perform a hateful, murderous magic without even _trying_. It had just shot out of him, beyond his control. He hadn’t even been holding his wand. He hadn’t even _pointing_ at it. 

What was worst, he hadn’t noticed his magic rising, the darkness itself usually so palpable had acted without warning. 

Like it had fused with the rest of Credence’s magic, until he couldn’t tell it apart anymore.

He crawled to the bed, curling up in the middle of the comforters. It was the most comfortable bed he’d ever slept in, and it never ceased to delight him. This afternoon, he barely felt it. He barely felt anything.

He thought of his fight with Percival earlier and could barely recall what it was about. Everything felt far away. He wished more than anything that Percival was there with him. Silas had been away for several days visiting childhood friends, and aside from the house elves, Credence was alone in the house.

Perhaps it was for the best, if he really was dangerous. If he really couldn’t control himself. 

Credence didn’t realize he’d fallen asleep until he was awakened by the sound of the door opening. It was Percival. He stared at Credence from the doorway, but when he stepped inside, his face was carefully blank. Out the window, the sky was dark. Credence had no idea how long he’d slept for, but he got the sense Percival had stayed late at the office.

Credence didn’t have to wonder why.

He watched as Percival pulled off his shirt, struggling when it got caught over his head. Credence watched, wanting to help, but still feeling too far away, too hurt, too afraid of himself and his actions. 

“You didn’t eat dinner,” Percival said quietly. He nodded at the tray that had been apparently been left on the side table for Credence. 

Numbly, Credence reached for a roll and munched on it, watching Percival pull off his pants and sit on the edge of the bed. He looked tired. 

An apology was on the tip of Credence’s tongue. If he would just say he was sorry for the hurtful things he’d said, some hurtful _on_ _purpose_ , like if he could just argue enough with Percival he would stop anxiously fretting over his sisters, but he couldn’t find the words. 

Percival turned to regard Credence. He twisted to lean against the headboard. Credence finished his roll and brought his knees up to his chest, a sense of dread creeping over him.

“I can take you to your family tomorrow,” Percival said finally, catching Credence off guard.

“You’re...you’re taking me back?”

“Taking you back where?” Percival sounded like he was attempting to rouse himself. “What are you talking about, Credence?”

“To Ma’s. You’re taking me back?” 

Percival froze. When Credence twisted to look at him, his eyes were wide in dawning dismay. 

“What?” 

“I thought—after earlier, what we said—what _I_ said, and after everything with my—well, with my difficulty with the wizarding world.” Credence swallowed. He the growing incredulity on Percival’s face and forced out, “So it-it would make sense if you thought to send me back, now.”

“Send you back? What on _earth_ —Credence.” Percival made a frustrated sound. “I was trying to apologize. I was trying say I was sorry for—when will you finally begin to trust me?”

Credence found he had no answer. How could he ever hope to trust the happy accident that was his life with Percival, when they had hardly come into this bonding as equals, far from it? How could he ever hope to give Percival his trust, despite his love for him, and his gratitude, when he had never known trust before in his life? How could Percival ask that of him?

So he remained silent, and Percival appeared to capitulate. “I’ll never truly know what’s in your heart, Credence, just as you’ll never know what’s in mine,” he said wearily. “That’s the irony of the bond, I suppose. There’s nothing to stop us hiding things from one another.” 

Credence cringed inwardly. Percival could be speaking of anything, but to Credence, it could mean nothing so much as his strange, frightening magic, and the threat it seemed to pose. Maybe that was why Percival had broached the topic of his family in the first place. Maybe he thought that was where the darkness had originated, from Ma and her hatred. 

One thing was clear, it had been foolish of Credence to think he could hide this perversion inside him from his bondmate. Clearly, Percival knew of it. If he didn’t end the bond today, he would soon. And Credence wouldn’t be able to bear it.

“We’re not strangers,” he said urgently. He took Percival’s hands in his, holding tight. “You’re not a stranger to me.” He leaned his forehead against Percival’s temple, distressed at his upset, wishing they could continue to ignore the horrible secret of his magic between them. 

“You don’t feel like a stranger,” Percival agreed consideringly. “I feel like I’ve known you for a very long time.”

“Me, too,” Credence said, pressing forward eagerly. Maybe this was all they needed. Maybe they could just ignore everything else for a while longer. “I feel exactly the same way.”

“But then, I wonder if you can ever really know another person.” Percival pulled back to meet Credence’s eyes. “I’m so sorry, Credence.”

“No, you don’t have to be sorry. It’s alright. There’s nothing to be sorry about.” It pained Credence to hear how responsible Percival seemed to feel for him. But Credence’s shortcomings were his own.

Percival looked like he wanted to push for more, but Credence was afraid of what he might say. It was the most selfish thing Credence had ever done, but he cut Percival off before he could start. He kissed Percival clumsily but ardently, over and over.

At first, Percival resisted, but as Credence moved to straddle his lap, he gave in, humming as Credence clutched at his shoulders, grinding down, seeking the simple release of being together like this.

He slithered out of his own clothes until they were bare against one another. Percival seemed content to rub against one another, or perhaps coax Credence’s climax out with his hand, as they always did, but tonight Credence needed more. He felt greedy for Percival, like he wanted to own him, as much as Percival owned Credence.

Credence pulled away, breathing hard. Hardly believing his own daring, he looked at Percival from under his lashes as he took Percival by the wrist and guided his hand between Credence’s thighs, back to that place that felt like it was growing hot in anticipation.

“Here,” Credence whispered. “I want you here.”

Percival stared up at him in wonder, swallowing hard. 

They had never done this before. Graves seemed reluctant to push for it, as though Credence had not secretly begun to fantasize about it, fueled ever higher by the forbidden way Percival would grab at Credence’s backside when they were grinding together in bed at night, squeezing hard enough to hurt almost, fingers brushing just over the tender, forbidden place just between his cheeks. It never failed to make Credence squirm, but Percival seemed to interpret it as discomfort, and until now Credence had been too embarrassed to correct that incorrect assumption.

Once, weeks before, when he’d been up waiting for Percival to come home after a late night at the office, Credence had even dared to touch himself there. He’d begun indulging in the occasional stroke of his own cock, never to completion, just as a way to anticipate Percival’s arrival in their bed every night, but the feeling of pressure against his hole made his whole body flush hot in shame and astonishment.

“You’re sure,” Percival said roughly. He rubbed lightly at the skin behind Credence’s balls, seeming to relish the way Credence arched and shook. “We don’t have to.”

Credence seized his shoulders, digging his fingernails in, feeling wild with the anticipation. “Do it,” he breathed. He saw Percival fumbled for his wand, and then mumble an unintelligible spell, and suddenly there was a slickness between Credence’s cheeks that made his whole body turn hot at once. 

He must have made a noise, because Percival was there, soothing him with a kiss to his brow. “It’s a surprising sensation at first.” Percival rubbed at his slick hole delicately, and when Credence pressed down, slipped the tip of his finger inside. “Is it alright?” His voice sounded throaty. Credence couldn’t answer. The words were caught in his throat, every inch of him focused on the feel of Percival’s finger.

He found himself chasing the sensation. As Percival drew his hand back, Credence whined, bending his knees to chase after it, but then Percival was back with two fingers this time, easing them in, and it pulled, but Credence breathed through it, loving the stretch, loving the way Percival was staring at his face so earnestly, like everything about Credence was the most important thing he’d ever seen.

Then Percival crooked his fingers and Credence gasped, freezing. Percival went still. “Is it okay?” he whispered into Credence’s temple, and Credence nodded, shocked at the near-electric burn that had run up his spine like lightning, almost unpleasantly.

“Again,” he gasped.

Percival used both fingers to rub at that spot, and Credence felt like he would fall apart. He looked down and saw Percival’s cock grown hard and beseeching, and suddenly he could wait no longer. With some regret, he pulled back, letting Percival’s fingers slip free. Credence reached to grab Percival’s cock and hold it steady, and positioned himself above. He met Percival’s eyes. Percival, who looked nearly overwrought. 

Carefully, Credence set the head of his cock to his hole, pressing just enough for the head to breach the muscle. They both froze, staring at each other. Percival was panting, open-mouthed, a tiny frown working its way between his eyebrows.

“Credence,” he choked out, “wait, are you sure—” 

Credence could no longer take his politeness, his niceties. He needed Percival, and so he sat down swiftly the rest of the way, cutting Percival off as though the words had been magically silenced in his throat.

It hurt, but Credence was used to pain. He even liked it, the way it both grounded him in his body and made his head feel like it was floating away. It was the type of pain, he noted distantly, that he’d been waiting for since the first night he’d so shamelessly offered himself to Percival, but now he was in charge of it, guiding it and shaping it—it was too much, it was just enough, it terrible and horrible, but good all at once. 

He greedily drank in the sight of Percival’s mouth dropping open, his eyes going tight almost in pain, but most of all he loved the way Percival’s hands had wrapped tightly around his waist, pulling him down onto his cock like he couldn’t bear even the slightest distance between them. 

“Credence,” Percival groaned out. “ _Credence_ , are you—is this alright?”

He seemed intent on continuing to treat Credence like he was some precious little thing that couldn’t stand a little hurt, even after everything, and Credence cut him off again, rising off Percival’s cock in a slow drag that made them both gasp.

Percival’s eyes shot open. He seemed drawn helplessly to the sight of their joining, his cheekbones and the bridge of his nose going red as he watched his cock slide out, and giving a shout as Credence speared himself almost cruelly back onto it.

Bracing his hands on Percival’s chest for leverage, he let the blunt nails of his left hand scratch over a nipple and felt a strange, unfamiliar sneer cross his face as Percival shuddered, his hands squeezing and releasing in a desperate tempo at Credence’s waist.

He loved this, Credence realized, with no small surprise. He’d thought before that he loved Percival best when he was on top of him, covering him, the weight of Percival’s body holding him down, but this was so different, so new—Credence had never felt power like this before. 

His magic seemed to recognize it, and it began to grow restless, dark and gaining strength, eerily similar to earlier with the bird, but Credence could only half-focus on it, too intent on the feeling of Percival inside of him, filling him up.

“Please,” Percival begged. He sounded mindless. He threw his head back against the pillow, eyes clenched shut. “Please, just a little—please.” 

A cold corner of Credence’s mind considered holding out indefinitely, leaving Percival desperate and unsatisfied forever. The thought startled him, however, because it didn’t feel like his voice, and most of all, it wasn’t what he wanted, either. 

Clenching hard, he impaled himself on Percival again, rose and fell hard again, and _again_ , building up a punishing rhythm that seemed to turn Percival mad. Credence felt a little crazy with it as well. He rode with abandon, chasing the rising, frightening power racing through his veins. 

Suddenly, Percival sat up, wrapping his arms around Credence’s body to drive him down onto his cock more thoroughly, grunting in Credence’s neck on every thrust until he sounded like he was sobbing. The change in angle hit that same spot again inside Credence that felt so good it hurt, lighting up every inch of his body. He cried out and nearly cringed away, the blunt pressure nearly too much, but he craved the overstimulation all the same.

Percival was near the edge, Credence could tell, but he still managed to create enough distance that he could reach between them and wrap his hand around Credence where he was hard and aching, and stroke him off in time with the way he drove into him.

“You’re so beautiful, my darling,” Percival whispered into his ear, sounding completely fatigued and amazed at the same time. His hot grip on Credence’s cock was almost too rough, but Credence loved it all the same. He twitched, chasing the feeling building up, the wet sensation of Percival’s cock still full within him. 

Everything was welling within him, and he realized the exact moment the balance seemed to shift. The darkness inside was rising up, and if he didn’t, if something didn’t happen _soon_ , he might, it might—

Percival bit down firmly on the muscle between Credence’s neck and shoulder, the teeth clenching painfully enough to send Credence exploding onto the other side.

Like it knew it was robbed of his moment, his magic settled fitfully, settling in the pit of his stomach into an unsatisfied coil like a snake.

He felt limp as Percival let out a breath and drove one last time inside him, coming in bursts, before he fell back, taking Credence with him.

Credence lay against his chest, mind spinning, feeling the way Percival’s heart was still galloping.

He felt Percival shift to grab his wand, but when he realized he was about to clean them up, he stopped his hand. “Not just yet,” he whispered. “I want to feel it.” He knew he should be horrified at himself, but as he felt the wetness leak from his used hole, the thought of cleaning it made him want to scratch and fight.

Percival made a low, beleaguered sound and twisted the around so he could gather Credence to his chest. “You’ll be the death of me.” He sounded sated, peacefully exhausted, but his words made Credence go cold. 

He felt Percival settle against his back. Credence felt his own heart continue to pound. A terrifying thought began to unfold in his mind, and once it gained momentum there was no stopping it.

Had his magic caused Percival to make love to him in this way? Had Credence taken him against his will?

Remembering back frantically, all Credence could recall had been thinking that he wanted Percival to stop speaking of secrets and lies between bondmates, that he’d wanted to forestall whatever hard discussion they were about to have. Had he let his magic wrap its tentacles around Percival, like he'd done earlier with the bird, and forced his unnatural urges upon him in the process?

He had no way of knowing. He could only fathom what his dark magic horrible was capable of. All he knew for sure was that it was getting steadily stronger within him, and it wanted out. He didn't know how much longer he could maintain control of it.

Worst of all, he was starting to doubt he had ever been in control of it in the first place.

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sup my dudes, sorry for the delay on this one, I had the whole sucker ready to go and then the computer froze and I lost half of it and I had to sit back and groan uninterrupted for a good hour. but now it's up, and I can only hope it was worth the wait! just three more chapters to go. I hope to have at least one more chapter up this week. thanks as always for reading and commenting and kudos-ing. you dudes rule.
> 
> ETA somehow I managed to mix up the sisters' names, like a big dummy. it should be fixed now. thank you for bringing it to my attention, and your patience. :)


	7. Chapter 7

* * * 

 

When Graves awoke, Credence was curled up against his chest, elbows and knees drawn tight like he was trying to make himself small.

Graves lay there, resisting his usual drive to get dressed and hurry into the office, drinking in the weight of Credence in his arms, the soft panting breaths he made in sleep into the crook of Graves’ neck. An unaccountable tenderness suffused him.

He was hit with the fervent need to cuddle Credence closer, to keep him safe in bed, where there was nothing that could harm either of them. He had a simultaneous urge to run his hand down Credence’s surprisingly plush backside and touch and stroke where he had been so warm and tight around Graves the night before.

He resisted both, but just barely.

He ran a hand softly up Credence’s back instead, over the soft knobs of his vertebrae, coming to rest upon the sharply vulnerable nape of his neck. His morning cockstand only got worse as he recalled the strange, wonderful experience of being beneath Credence, held down, how Credence looked as he took control, using Graves for his pleasure, the near-frantic light in his eye as he rode Graves to his completion.

He gave one last consideration to rousing Credence to revisit whatever sensual fervor had overtaken him the night before, but Graves really did need to get to work. And, he saw from glancing at Credence’s face, Credence seemed to be sleeping hard. His sleep looked troubled. Graves wished there was a way to soothe the line from between his brows. 

Slightly horrified at his sentimentality this morning, he decided to wash and get dressed and give Credence the extra time to rest.

He carefully extricated himself from the bed, the soft, perturbed noises Credence made in sleep at being disturbed bringing a smile to his face. He pulled the comforter up to cover Credence’s bare shoulder, indulging himself with a brush of his finger over the dark hair that brushed his ears, long grown out of its severe bowl cut.

But as Graves went about his morning routine, his smile quickly fell away as he contemplated the unavoidable decision in front of him, and its implications. 

The question was whether Mary Lou was suppressing children’s magic with the intent of creating an Obscurial, or if the Obscurus, if it existed, was a happy accident of her already brutal actions. The destruction wrought by an Obscurial might be taking place right under her nose and she’d never be the wiser, if it was Modesty or Chastity, or one of the other orphan children that always swarmed Second Salemer events. 

Of course there was the looming question of whether the attacks on No-Maj property were even the result of an Obscurus in the first place. 

One way to know for sure was to bring Modesty and Chastity into the office and run a full series of diagnostic spellwork. Then Graves could work backward through the rest of the children. If one was identified, Graves suspected an Obscurial would most likely need to be destroyed, as barbaric as it was. The Statute of Secrecy would demand it. 

If only he had put these pieces together when the girls had been at the estate a week prior, he thought in frustration. 

He took a moment to feel profound, bleak relief that at least he could be sure Credence had been spared the sad fate of an Obscurial, as he was far too old to have sustained an Obscurus. He wasn’t aware of a single case of an Obscurial surviving beyond the age of ten. It made him feel ill to think how the knife of fate had skimmed so closely by his bondmate. He glanced at where Credence slept on, undisturbed by Graves’ maudlin thoughts, and wished a terrible end on Mary Lou’s head, as was his custom since that first day he’d seen how skinny and hunched Credence truly was beneath his clothes. She was a monster, and in turn she was creating monsters. 

But if he began bringing in her children to be examined, she might go to ground. He had no doubt New York City provided no shortage of hidey-holes for someone as resourceful as Mary Lou, and he’d been feeding her funds for over a month, damn his short-sightedness to Cerberus’ hell. 

And if she wasn’t working alone, if she did have a wizard or witch, or perhaps a whole network, propping her up, they might help her disappear. A magical collaborator seemed likely. No independent No-Maj, not even if Mary Lou was a squib who had shunned all magical life, could orchestrate this type of mayhem on his or her own. But to what end would a wizard or witch assist her? A plausible objective eluded him. How did Mary Lou’s No-Maj religious fanaticism align with the known magical extremists in Europe? Grindelwald and his fanatics considered themselves overlords of non-magical society. They would no doubt be repulsed at working so closely with a lowly No-Maj like Mary Lou, the arrogant asses.

Either way, taking Modesty and Chastity in outright was a risk, potentially a costly one.

Or, he considered reluctantly, returning to his conclusion from the day before, he could use bait to trick Mary Lou Barebone into activating the Obscurials themselves, and thus the opportunity to catch both her and any allies off-guard enough to facillitate a capture.

He sat down on the bed and gently shook the shoulder of the bait in question.

“Time to wake up, my darling,” he murmured, unable to help the endearment, even outside of the throes of passion.

Credence grumbled, rather adorably in Graves’ mortified opinion, and turned away. 

He pressed a kiss into his hair, smiling as Credence rolled back into him and cracked an eye open. 

“I’m headed to the office soon,” Graves said. 

Credence blinked, looking marginally more alert. “Would you like me to come with?” he asked, oddly tentative.

Graves raised his eyebrows. “I always want you to come with,” he said, honestly, but especially today. If he was going to ask Credence to do this, he was going to do it as quickly as surgically as possible, like ripping off a bandage.

“Do you?” Credence regarded him seriously, as though the question held great weight. “Is it really what you want?”

Graves couldn’t quite laugh it off. Credence looked so intent, hanging on Graves' response.

Sobered, he took Credence’s hands. “Please come to work with me,” Graves said. “I want you to.” He grinned crookedly. “I’ll save you some of Prudentia’s muffins if you hurry.” He cupped Credence’s face and kissed the tip of his nose, resigned to his foolishness.

Credence smiled reluctantly, ducking his chin. He still looked unacceptably anxious, which Graves didn't like, not at all, but since he was likely to be yet another source of his anxiety once he asked for his participation in his scheme, Graves felt powerless to address it now.

So he gave Credence another kiss and went to procure the muffins. 

They made it to the office within an hour. Credence went to his usual spot in the armchair by the window, picking up the picking up the volume of Crossfold that had made such a nuisance of itself the day before. He very deliberately opened to his bookmark and began to read.

Graves did not comment. Who would not let Crossfold start another argument, not when he was conceivably about to engineer one of his own soon enough. Instead, he devoted himself to scetching out a more thorough strategic plan for neutralizing Mary Lou Barebone. 

As he worked, his apprehension at the more morally relative aspects of his plan was offset by a growing element of excitement.

If he captured an Obscurial, it would be the jewel of the Enforcement department. He might receive a commendation, or even better, an increase in his hiring budget and freer reign to select witches and wizards for placement in the field. 

His legacy as director of Enforcement would be unassailable. If he played his cards right, this solve could be the cornerstone of his Auror career.

But his career deliberations were abruptly interrupted as another thought occurred to him, one he was abashed to not have considered earlier, and a palpable sense of dread began to rise within him. 

If someone else, another Auror, perhaps Benjamin or Adenkabi, or even a particularly saavy MACUSA official, beat him to the punch and made the connection between the Second Salemers, the property destruction and Obscurials public before he had the chance for a capture, there could be dangerous consequences. It might cause another anti-No-Maj fervor (his office was still untangling snarls left by the Panic of ’17). Credence’s connection to Mary Lou would be uncovered. He might come under suspicion of collaborating, and Graves for harboring him. There would be congressional hearings, they both might be investigated or charged with sedition. Far from making his career, improper handling of this case could destroy Credence’s entire life, and his. Graves wouldn’t be able to shield him from most of it, or any of it. 

Their bond might be called into question, he recognized with dread, or even dissolved. 

Behind him, there was a rustle as Credence turned the page.

That settled it. Graves swallowed, determined. He needed to catch the Obscurial, and soon, and stop Mary Lou, and whatever other groups were involved. Involving Credence, while not ideal, was the fastest way to do so. It was for the greater good of their bond. 

He dashed off a note for Lusitania and with a wave of his wand, watching it disappear in a puff of smoke as it made for his assistant’s desk.

He scribbled out the rest of his notes, outlining his theories while he waited. Lusitania, most likely galvanized by the unusual nature of the request itself, returned within an hour, knocking lightly on the door. 

“Come in,” Graves called out, and watched as Lusitania entered, hand clutched around Graves’ request. 

It was a No-Maj pocket watch that had been charmed with a remote Imperio curse. Graves still needed to activate it, but once he did, it would cast the curse on a designated victim, and he would have control from afar. Normally an Auror needed at least a warrant to get such an object approved, but Graves had used his unofficial override abilities to get it done. Lusitania had not asked any questions because she was a well-trained assistant, and Graves had provided no details. But she was also a non-idiot who worked in an office full of Aurors. She must have immediately begun drawing her own theories.

As she handed it over, Graves saw her glancing surreptitiously at Credence. 

“Thank you, Lusitania, you may leave.” 

His assistant would never be so insubordinate as to flout a direct order, but she did hesitate. She looked at the pocket watch in Graves’ hand and swallowed. 

“Lusitania,” Graves said sternly. 

His assistant jumped, and then left, closing the door behind her. 

He turned to see Credence observing him curiously. He went to stand by his armchair and Credence set his book aside, rising to meet him. 

“Percival?” He sounded nervous. 

Graves considered laying out a ruse. But as he looked a Credence waiting patiently, he found the lie he’d originally prepared fell dead in his throat.

“Credence,” Graves asked evenly, turning the watch over in his hand, “if I asked you to visit your mother for me, and give her something, without knowing why, would you do it?” 

Credence considered, and he looked almost ready argue. He even opened his mouth. But then he snapped it shut, that same anxious look from earlier clouding his face. “Yes.” He met Graves’ eye. A strange veil of determination went over his face. “I trust you.” 

“You do?” Graves sounded breathless to his own ears. The night before, he'd practically begged the same of him and Credence had hesitated. Something had changed in the interim, and Graves wished he knew what, if anyhting, he'd done to deserve such faith from Credence.

“I do," Credence agreed steadily. “If that’s what you need me to do, I can do that.”

It was that single expression of total, unthinking faith in Graves that did him in. 

As Credence took the watch, Gravesfound himself grabbing his hand, holding tight on the fist that held the watch.

“Wait,” he exclaimed. Credence paused, looking at him with a little frown on his face, lightly perplexed.

He couldn’t do it. Merlin’s balls, he couldn’t do it.

“I must admit something to you. I was going to send you on an Auror mission without your consent,” he admitted heedlessly, the truth spilling like poison out of his mouth. “I was prepared to exploit your position with your family to solve a case." He looked away. "I’m sorry. I don’t care what Mary Lou is doing, we’ll find another way.”  

Looking wholly shaken, Credence asked, “What is my mother doing?” He swallowed in dread. “Are Chastity and Modesty in danger?”

Graves didn't want to overstate, but he wanted to move away from the temptation to tell Credence soothing half-truths. “In a manner of speaking, yes,” he admitted instead.

It set Credence off like a flame.

“In what manner exactly, Percival? Tell me,” he demanded. His mouth worked a little, and then he came out with, “Damnit,” emphatically, succeeding in astonishing Graves. He’d never heard Credence curse before. 

Graves forced himself to get the words out, shame making his chest ache, but refusing to allow himself the ease of denial or equivocation. “I suspect that your mother might be creating a type of dark magic inside them, and I’m ashamed to admit that I had considered sending you as a ruse to catch her out.”

He took Credence by the shoulders, pulling him in until their chests brushed.

“But I couldn’t do it. You’re too important,” he said intently, slightly dazed, the words sinking in.

He couldn’t believe what he had nearly done this to the man that he loved. 

That he loved. 

It hit him like a sack of goblin’s gold. He was an idiot. How had he not realized? 

But while Graves was busy having a crystallizing moment of realization about his emotions vis-à-vis his bond, and Credence seemed to be largely unaware of the significance, the wand in Percival's pocket grew red hot, the heat searing through his vest and shirt and burning his skin. He yelped, yanking it out with one hand, the other still holding firmly to Credence.

"What is it?" Credence asked. He watched as Graves pulled out the wand to glare at the smoking hot tip. It was glowing red, impossible to ignore even when it wasn't scorching his skin. 

"It's the Summoning spell." Of course it was, Graves thought grimly. Of all the moments for it to come through, of course it was now. Seeing Credence's confusion, he explained, "It's the charmed necklace I gave your sisters. It seems one of them has activated it."

As expected, Credence looked even more alarmed. "What does that mean?" he demanded.

"I don't know," Graves hedged. He looked at the tip of his wand, wishing it could give him more information, but that was not the nature of the Summoning spell. It was still glowing red. Maybe it was a false alarm, and one of the girls was playing with it and set it off. Or maybe Mary Lou was hurting them and about to unleash an Obscurial. There was no way to know without checking it out, and there was no way to be sure if they were at the church or out somewhere in the city trying to convince a bunch of No-Majs that magic was evil.

"All we know for sure is that one of your sisters pressed it. I told them to use it if they were in trouble." That, coupled with Graves' earlier assertion that the girls might be in danger, sent Credence into a tailspin.

He wrenched himself from Graves’ grasp, taking several steps back.

"We have to go now," Credence insisted. "Take me to them."

"Hold on, now." Graves held his wand up, ready to perform a Tracery spell. Someting seemed off. The timing of the Summons was too on the nose. He wanted to be sure. But before he could get started, Credence was pacing around the room.

“This is my fault,” he was muttering. He grabbed at his hair, eyes wild. “This is my fault, this is _my fault_.”

Graves reached for him, but Credence jerked away. “Credence, what are you saying? You did nothing wrong.” 

But Credence didn’t seem to hear him, muttering almost mindlessly to himself, pulling harder on his hair. “This is my _fault_. I let them go back. I _let_ them go _back_.”

Graves managed to grab him by the arm, holding on so he couldn’t pull on his hair anymore. “Stop this, please,” Graves pleaded, feeling crazed as he watched Credence lose control, holding on as he struggled. “My darling, please.”

“ _Don’t call me that!_ ” Credence exploded.

A solid, invisible force rose up and slammed into Graves, sending him stumbling backward and down onto one knee. He gasped as the breath was blasted out of him, caught off guard. He’d been on the receiving end of a witch or wizard’s reflexive repellent magic before, but it usually wasn’t this strong. He wouldn’t be surprised if he’d cracked a rib. 

Credence looked absolutely horrified at himself. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. 

Graves rubbed at his sternum as he rushed to reassure him, desperate to get that look of self-directed horror off of his face. “No, it’s alright, it was an accident, Credence, my love, you didn’t mean—”

But Credence was rambling again, hands clutching his skull. “I’m sorry, I’m _sorry_.”

Before Graves could intervene further, his office door burst open, revealing none but the always inconveniently-timed Porpentina Goldestein, trailed by some messy-haired idiot who set Graves’ teeth on edge just to look at him.

Characteristically, she was talking before she was even fully through the door. “Auror Graves, I’m sorry to barge in like this, but I’ve been trying to reach you for days and this can’t wait any longer—” She cut herself off as she caught sight of Graves, still kneeling on the floor. She looked at Credence, then did a double-take. “Credence Barebone?” Credence didn't acknlowedge her, too distraught.

Lusitania shouldered through, calling out, “I’m so sorry, Auror Graves, I tried to stop them.”

Tina was still staring at Credence, completely caught off guard. “Credence, what on earth are you doing here?” She looked sharply at Graves, immediately suspicious. “What is a No-Maj doing here, Auror Graves?” Her tone was stern. 

He got up from the floor. “Credence is not—”

“It looks like you all have your hands full here,” the messy-haired idiot interrupted, already backing conspicuously away. He was British, inexplicably, why was this entire morning going so quickly to hell, Graves wondered feverishly. 

Tina grabbed for the idiot, holding him fast. “Quit trying to escape, Mr. Scamander, we need to tell Auror Graves what you know.”

Lusitania began pulling them both out. “You need to make an appointment, Tina, you can’t just waltz in—” 

Graves saw Credence begin rocking on his heels, hands cradling his head, overwhelmed by the sudden chaos in the room or that he'd knocked Graves down or the news about his sisters, or all three, but regardless, Graves couldn’t take it. 

“All of you shut up!” he roared.

The room went silent. Even Credence stilled, but he backed away as Graves approached.

“Credence, just talk to me, tell me what has you so upset,” Graves said lowly, holding a hand out. He went for broke, near-frantic himself to calm Credence down. “You’re my bondmate. Please.”

Tina gasped. Credence’s face crumpled. There were tears in his eyes.

“I need to go to them,” he said. He sounded heartbroken. “I’m sorry.”

“Credence—”

Before Graves or anyone in the room could react, Credence brought his arm down in a sharp motion and, without a wand or speaking a single word, Disapparated on the spot.

Graves, Tina and the British idiot stood in stunned silence. Graves couldn’t remember the last time he’d seen a wizard Disapparate wandless, not to mention that Disapparating from inside the MACUSA building was largely protected by wards that required preapproved Apparative clearance.

Tina jabbed him in the chest. “Auror Graves, what did you mean ‘bondmate’?” She was aghast. “What have you gotten that boy into?” 

But Graves was already pushing past them both. He sped by Lusitania outside his office, her mouth wide. He wondered how much of that she had caught. Probably most of it. He didn’t slow down. 

He Disapparated into the side street by the MACUSA office where he had found Credence weeks before, hoping by chance he hadn’t managed to Disapparate untrained any great distance, but the street was empty. 

He needed to get to the damn Second Salemer church. He knew it was where Credence was headed first.

He raised his wand to Disapparate, his attention wholly focused on nothing but finding Credence before it was too late.

 

* * * 

 

Credence was flying through the air like a knife slicing through time itself. He had no recollection of how or why he was being transported this way, save for a spiking feeling of despair and the impression of Percival reaching for him, eyes beseeching, his hand outstretched. 

Without warning, Credence’s feet slammed into the earth again with such force he feared his entire body would split in two like a walnut. He fell to his hands and knees, gasping for air, the entire surface of his skin feeling like it was knitting itself back together. He wondered fleetingly if he was about to die. 

But his body held together for a heartbeat, and then another, until gradually he regained a sense of equilibrium.

He raised his head and saw to his bewilderment he was outside the deserted church where Ma had set up her base of operations for the Second Salemers. 

Had he brought himself here? He thought vaguely that he had wished he was at the church so he could protect Modesty and Chastity from whatever calamity had befallen them. Had that been all it had taken? Had he lost control of his horrible magic so completely that a mere desire would send him shooting through space? 

The narrow, derelict side street upon which the church sat like a surly wraith was empty. There wasn’t even the usual crowd of ravenous orphans milling about the place. He wondered if what Modesty had said about Ma not holding ministry anymore was true. Maybe that included feeding the children, too.

He hauled himself to his feet, legs unsteady, and staggered to the front door. But before he could knock or open it himself, it swung outward, nearly bowling him over.

“Credence!” 

It was Modesty. She was staring at him like he was an answer to a prayer, her eyes feverish. She threw herself at him. Credence caught her by reflex.

“Modesty, are you alright?” he asked, panicked, trying to hold her away so he could examine her, but she clenched her arms tight around his waist, unwilling to be separated. 

“Thank goodness you’re here.” She was wearing a necklace around her neck, a long copper chain with a wooden pendant. He’d never seen it before. It must be the summoning object Percival had given them. 

“Where’s Chastity, is she okay? What happened? Mr. Graves said you used the signal and I thought...” He couldn’t articulate it, just that the surge of foreboding had been overpowering. 

Modesty grabbed his hand, towing him into the church. “Hurry, you must _hurry_.” 

Credence resisted, insisting, “No, Modesty, if you’re in danger I need to take you away from here.” But she kept pulling insistently.

“Please, this way, hurry, please hurry.” She grabbed Credence’s hand in both of her small fists, peering up at him, every inch of her rigid in what looked like anguish.

He relented. “Okay.” He feared whatever she was about to bring him to, but it must be important. He trusted Modesty. “Show me.” 

He let himself be led into the church nave. It was surreal, being back in this place, seeing how filthy it was, how drafty and dreary. He was hit with the sense memory of feeling weak and being in pain, but it was like the recollection of a stranger. This wasn’t his life anymore.

Modesty was leading them quickly up the dusty aisle between the disused, broken-down pews. She took him past the altar and through the musty, moth-bitten curtain that separated the priest’s sanctuary from the baptistery. They went down the short set of stairs to the basement. 

Credence quickly became uneasy. His heart pounded. He felt ready to flee at any moment.

“Modesty, why are you taking me here?” he asked, voice hushed.

She didn’t answer, and when they opened the door to the basement proper, Credence saw why. 

Inside, Ma was standing expectantly near a stack of old pulpits that listed unevenly to one side. Chastity waited behind her, watching Credence with open curiosity. 

Modesty dropped Credence’s hand as soon as they entered the room. She went from stiff with fear to perfectly calm.  “I brought him to you, Ma,” she said proudly. She hurried to stand before Ma. 

“Well done, my child,” Ma intoned. She touched Modesty’s forehead with a smile. Modesty went to take her place beside Chastity, taking her smaller hand in hers.

When Ma looked at Credence, the smile disappeared. 

“I’m glad you decided to come,” Ma said primly. “We need to discuss your situation.” 

“You knew I was coming?” Credence said. He was having difficulty believing that Modesty would do this, but maybe that was because he was a fool, unwillingly to believe the evidence even when it was right in front of him. 

“Of course I knew,” Ma retorted, impatient. “I’ve known of everything you’ve ever done.” 

It was a relic from his childhood, Ma standing over him, watching him shake in fear, eyes gleaming. _God sees everything you do and then he tells me_.

This time, though, looking at the superior look on Modesty’s face, Credence knew it wasn’t God who had betrayed his confidence.

“I’m sure you’ve been enjoying the devil’s delights with abandon,” Ma said harshly.

“That’s—that’s none of your business,” Credence stammered out. But he wasn’t sure if she was referring to the magic that even now, idle, he could feel curling and roiling in the pit of his stomach, or the way Graves would sometimes shake in his arms like he was about to die with pleasure. Either way, he felt himself flush.

“But I’m sure a part of you knows this experiment of yours has always been unsustainable.”

Credence hated the knowing look on Ma's face. More than that, he hated that she somehow knew his abiding fear, that his bond with Percival was illusory.

He refused to admit it out loud. He tried again with Modesty and Chastity. “Girls, please, why have you done this?” When they ignored him, he sighed. “Why did you bring me here, really?” he asked Ma flatly. He would have thought she’d be happy to see the back of him. 

Her nostrils flared at his strident tone, but she temporarily kept back her temper with impressive control. 

“Come back to us,” she entreated instead, a friendly wheedling creeping into her words that Credence had never heard her use to speak to him before. “Come home.” 

“This isn’t my home anymore,” he said firmly. It was such a joy to say aloud. He looked at Modesty and Chastity. “It doesn’t have to be your home, either. You can come with me.” 

“Shut your whore mouth,” Ma barked out, all pretense of politeness gone. “You forsake this family, you forsake our cause, then you have the gall to speak that way in front of me?"

“Percival pays you,” Credence said wonderingly at Ma’s ire. It didn’t make any sense. “You’re better off without me.” 

“A servant of Christ has no need of funds if her heart is pure.” She shook her head, crossing her arms in judgment. “That was always your weakness, Credence. You can never see the bigger picture, that we are subject to God’s will, to God’s choice for our actions. Even you, the lowest of his servants, God has chosen for a special plan.” An expression of something almost like pity came over her face. “Do you honestly not see how God has blessed you with his cleansing power yet?”

He shook his head, incredulous, and angry at himself for falling for such an obvious con.

“I’m leaving,” he declared. The girls were clearly fine. They’d chosen their path. For his part, Credence needed to find a way back to the MACUSA building and ensure he still had a place with Percival after the outrageous way he’d behaved in the office, and the frightening moment when he’d lashed out with his magic. He was lucky he hadn’t done any damage. If he hurried back, maybe they could pretend like that morning had never happened, including the implication that for a little while, Percival had been thinking about using Credence as a spy without his explicit knowledge. 

He had no idea what to do with that information yet, no matter how wretched Percival had looked while confessing, so Credence was keeping it tucked away, to be examined at the end of the day when things were calm again, when he was back in bed with Percival, safe.

Ma looked furious enough to implode. “If you leave this family again, I can promise you that your welcome next time will be far from warm.” 

Credence couldn’t help responding, daring to snap back as he never would have dared a few months before. “There won’t be a next time.”

“You mark me, harlot,” Ma vowed darkly, confidently, “there will come a time, sooner than you can possibly imagine, when your protector will see you for your true worthlessness. He will abandon you, just like your mother and her family abandoned you at birth.” She smiled coldly at him. 

He couldn’t listen to her anymore, afraid the evil of her words would seep into his skin like a poison. It felt too much like a premonition. Like a curse.

He took the stairs two at a time, but he could hear her voice rising behind him. “And when that happens, you will have nowhere to go. And when you come crawling back here, I will make you wish you’d never dared to defy me.”

By the time he hit the altar, he was running.

He dashed through the church and out onto the street. He felt physically ill, from Ma’s words and the upset of his sisters’ treachery, and all he wanted was to go home, to find Percival. 

He whipped around the corner at top speed and nearly stumbled as he was greeted by a sight so welcome it made tears begin coursing down his face. He couldn't remember the last time he'd cried so freely.

Percival had come for him.

He was standing under the awning of a rundown, abandoned office building. He stared intently at Credence, waiting. Welcoming.

Credence let himself keep running until he was barreling directly into Percival’s chest. He held on as tightly as he could, burying his face into Percival's neck. The feeling of Percival’s arms settling around his shoulders made him feel immediately more secure. 

“I’m sorry for pushing you,” he stuttered out. “I’m sorry for disappearing.” He remembered the watch, sitting idle in his pocket. He hadn't even managed to give it to Mary Lou. “I’m sorry for—” 

Percival cut him off. “I have to tell you something important, and it will probably be surprising, so I need you to listen.” He stepped away slightly, holding Credence at arms' length. The sudden distance was unpleasant. Credence began to shake. “Are you listening?”

Doing his best to choke back another sob, Credence nodded. He breathed in, breathed out, telling himself to calm. 

Percival waited patiently for him to get control. Once Credence caught his breath, Percival cupped both hands around his face, bringing their faces close enough that Credence could see the warm brown of his irises. He wiped gently, almost dispassionately, at the tears streaming down Credence’s face

“I've decided you’ll be living with your mother from now on,” Percival said. His eyes were warm and sympathetic as he said it, but it was like he screamed it. Credence’s ears began ringing. “I need you to be brave for me.” 

Credence felt a coldness seep into his veins. Surely he’d misheard him. “Percival?”

“I need you to help me find something, and the only way to find it is for you to stay with your mother and your sisters. I need a keen pair of eyes. Can you help me?”

It didn’t make any sense. Why was he sending Credence back? He’d promised he’d never send Credence back.

As though reading his mind, Percival elaborated. “I’m looking for a very special child, and I think that child is here, with your mother and sisters and the children she helps. You need to help me find this child, Credence. Can you do that?”

“I—I think so, but why must I—can’t I.” Credence felt his lower lip trembling. “I want to stay with _you_ ,” he insisted shakily.

“It won’t be forever,” Percival said soothingly. He crowded closer, his body heat seeping into Credence. He barely felt it.

“You don’t want me anymore,” Credence said dully. A horrid, triumphant voice in Credence’s head declared that this was what he’d always known Percival would do eventually. The voice sounded grimly satisfied, familiar comfort in finally being hit and no longer needing to agonize over anticipating the blow.

Percival’s mouth turned down. “That’s not true.” He shook Credence’s head lightly like he was scolding a puppy. “Don’t say that.” He stared at Credence until Credence looked down, away, anything to escape Percival’s disappointed look. 

“I’m sorry,” Credence whispered. He didn't know what he was apologizing for. His voice was a rasp, unshed tears burning his throat.

“That’s not to say that a little bit of distance won’t make the heart grow fonder, in a way,” Percival said thoughtfully. Credence’s head snapped up, dismayed, but Percival seemed sweetly earnest. “I’m sure we can both agree that we rushed into our bond without much time for thought.” He glowered playfully like he was scolding both of them. “So impatient.” 

 _But you were the one who chose me_ , Credence wanted to yell. _You were the one who couldn’t wait._  

He was struck silent, however. The best he could do was breath shallowly to keep from crying again. 

Seeing his upset, Percival pulled him close, tucking Credence under his chin and rocking him slowly, like a child. “It won’t be so hard, will it? Just like falling back into place.” 

He had to say something, he had to _resist_ —“But, Percival, my—I—” 

Percival pushed him away from his embrace so he could meet him in the eye. “You need to trust me,” he interrupted softly. 

Credence stared, and thought of the estate, its enormous hallways and high-ceilinged rooms, extravagant and comfortable all at once, and how it had started to feel like _his_ , almost. He thought of his magic lessons with Silas, which normally devolved into long, meandering conversations and the occasional morning wine. He thought of Prudentia and the other house elves, who had made it their mission to find out his favorite foods and urge them on him at every occasion, Prudentia constantly remarking that he was much, much too thin. He thought of the comfortable chaos of the Auror office, and curling up in a corner to read all the books he could dream of, undisturbed, while Percival worked tirelessly at his desk. 

He thought of the Graves nameline, and being a part of something meaningful and resilient and enduring for the first time in his life. 

Most of all he thought of Percival, being with Percival, arguing with Percival, being a part of his life, and feeling more and more like Percival considered himself part of Credence’s life in return. He thought of the bedroom they shared, and the way Percival would sometimes reach out in his sleep to pull Credence closer against his chest, like even in sleep any distance between them was too much. He thought of the devastating, wicked, irresistible pleasure he found in his arms, and how he’d never expected to become so dependent on pleasures of the flesh to make him feel alive.

But Percival was asking for his help, and all he was asking Credence in return was to give up his new life. He swallowed thickly. Percival was asking Credence for his trust, and Credence had realized that very day that despite his misgivings, he did trust Percival. He trusted him. 

He still needed to clear his throat, and then swallow again, before he could say, “I will, Percival,” faintly, the ringing growing louder in his ears.

Percival rubbed his thumb on the ridge behind Credence's ear. “You should call me Mr. Graves while you’re back home, so as not to arouse suspicion.” A good-natured half-smile split his face. 

“Yes, Mr. Graves,” Credence mimicked dutifully. 

It was frightening how quickly he felt himself slipping back. 

“Good boy.” He kissed Credence on the forehead. Credence looked at the ground. “Now, give me your wand.” Credence shook his head. He’d left the cursed thing at home ( _at the Graves Estate, it’s not your home, it was never really your home,_ he corrected himself ruthlessly) that morning because he loathed it so intensely, especially after the incident with the bird. Percival nodded, satisfied. “Okay. We’ll discuss your instructions in more detail next time we meet. For now, you need to ingratiate yourself back with Mary Lou. Can you do that, Credence?” 

Credence nodded mutely.

“Of course you can,” Percival said proudly. He turned Credence around with one hand on his shoulder and led him back around the corner until the church came into view again.

Ma was standing outside on the front steps, sweeping angrily at the steps, Modesty and Chastity flanking her with their own brooms. His sisters stopped to watch as Credence and Percival approached with unreadable expressions. Credence could no longer guess at the thoughts in their hearts. Ma finally looked up when they were at the bottom of the stairs. She glared down at them both.

"What do you want," she snapped.

“Mary Lou, I’ve come to return your son to you,” Percival announced. He sounded humble and apologetic. It was an unfamiliar tone for him, but Credence also suspected that maybe he had never known Percival as well as he’d thought he did.

Ma narrowed her eyes. “Is this a trick?” 

“Not a trick. I just think a child belongs with his mother. Don’t you agree?”

Credence reeled in incomprehension. Percival had never treated Credence like a child before. Was this meant to set Ma at ease, he wondered, or was this all an elaborate setup to begin the first steps in truly ending their bond? Credence had no idea. His brain felt filled with gum. He couldn’t think. 

When Ma only looked skeptical, Percival added, “I’ll continue to pay your stipend, with an additional income for Credence’s care. I know I’m leaving you in a difficult spot.” 

She regarded Percival, then looked archly at Credence and said, “I can see how you would decide to be rid of him. I don’t blame you.”

“No need to be cruel,” Percival chided. He squeezed Credence’s shoulder. Credence barely felt it. He pushed Credence forward. “Go on.” 

Distantly, he felt his dark magic begin to rumble. For once, he wished it would burst out of him, leaving him crumpled and shed like a snake’s skin in its wake. At least then he would not have to walk away from Percival, from the wonders of bonded life and the magical world he’d known for only a short while, only to have it all yanked away. 

Of course, since he wished for it, his magic made no attempt to surface. It truly was useless to him, he decided, deadened.

A sudden panic swept through him. He twisted around, desperately trying to appeal to Percival one last time, to make him change his mind, somehow. 

“It’s alright, sweet boy,” Percival said soothingly. “It’s alright. I’ll be back soon.” He nudged him forward again. “Go on, now.” 

He put one unfeeling foot in front of the other, trudging slowly until he stood in front of Ma. She stepped aside. “Get in there,” she hissed. “Enough of this melodrama.” 

He turned one last time to look at Percival, and saw him watching, a reassuring light in his eye. He nodded at Credence’s desperate glance. He made no effort to call for him, or stop him, or otherwise correct what was happening. 

Credence had been abandoned. With one last look at Percival, he turned and walked inside the church for the second time that day, but this time, it felt real. 

Once inside, Ma shut the door firmly. She stepped in front of him and held out her hand expectantly. Still shell-shocked, he looked at it without comprehension.

Ma reached up and smacked him on the side of the head for his slowness. 

Credence flinched away. He'd grown unused to the shock of being hit and it stunned him. It barely hurt; it was the unexpected cruelty that bit harder. He felt his shoulders hunch protectively, his muscles remembering the motions even if his head had been dumb enough to forget. 

“Give me your belt,” Ma instructed. Her eyes were gleaming, a holy warrior celebrating a moral victory.

Desperately, Credence tried to remember that he trusted Percival. If he was asking Credence to do this, it must be important. He had to trust him.

“ _Give_ me your _belt_ , Credence.” She snapped her finger. 

He could run. She couldn’t physically restrain him, not on her own. But where would he go? If he went back to the estate, would Percival officially disown him? Credence did not want to force his hand. He'd rather live in suspended ignorance. He was a coward anyway. He deserved no better than this. 

Credence saw no point in resisting. This was his life again. As he unhooked his belt, he wondered if he’d ever really left. 

“I won’t ask you again.”

He handed the belt to Ma, and turned his back, head already bowed. 

It was almost as though he’d never really left.

 

* * * 

 

Graves’ head was pounding. It felt like giants were beating upon his skull with both fists. They needed to stop. He needed to think, to figure out what had happened and where he was. He needed to find Credence, before he found himself facing down an Obscurial by himself with none of Graves' backup or support. He couldn't let himself panic yet. He needed to focus.

He could tell he’d been struck by something, knocked out, who knew for how long. He groggily began cataloging details to orient himself.

His eyes were closed, and he could feel his body contorted into an uncomfortable shape, feeling as though someone had crunched him into a ball like a discarded piece of parchment. 

He was sitting on the ground. A hard ground, like concrete or stone that was ice cold and making him tremble with it. He was propped up against a wall.

He blinked his eyes open, even though the movement only exacerbated his headache. It was dark wherever he was. It took a few seconds for his eyes to adjust, and even then he only saw shadows.

He moved to grab his wand to cast an Illuminating spell, but his wrist was caught short. There was a clang. His wrists were bound behind his back with a metal fastened to something. It felt like a metal grate.

He hadn’t been kidnapped since he was a beat Auror in his twenties, but it wasn’t a sensation you easily forgot. He felt the same sense of rage and impotence now as he had the few times it had occurred then. He followed the old protocol by rote; orient himself; check the restraints for weakness; identify avenues of escape.

He pulled experimentally against his bindings, but before he could make much headway, from the other end of the darkened room or chamber or wherever he was, he heard the distinct click of shoes walking toward him, their slow pace irritating him. The faster his captor revealed himself, the faster Graves could strategize an escape and get to Credence's side, get to his bondmate, Merlin help him.

He waited until two smartly polished shoes entered his field of vision. There was a soft “lumos”, and the dim light from a wand tip cast a light upon him. He let his eyes travel up, up.

They settled on the haughty visage of Gellert Grindelwald, the most wanted wizard in Europe and America. Graves had only ever seen photographs of him. He was nt improved upon in person.

“I’m just back from seeing my new pet, and I thought I’d chat with you now that you’re awake.” Grindelwald looked immensely pleased with himself. It was an unpleasant expression to behold.

“Your pet,” Graves gritted out in question. His throat was dry and painful, and his thoughts slow, but amidst the befuddlement, a klaxon alarm began to blare internally. He hoped desperately that Grindelwald did not mean what Graves thought he did.

The corner of Grindelwald’s mouth quirked upward. His eyes glowed hungrily as he loomed over Graves. 

“I’m sorry, I should be more specific. Since I suppose my pet was  _your_ pet, too, in a way,” Grindelwald said smoothly. “I meant your boy. Your Credence. He's mine, now.”

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> WE'RE ON THE HOME STRETCH YOU GUYS! my plan is to post chapters 8 and 9 at the same time, and I am tentatively planning for that double posting to take place Monday. check [ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com](my%20tumblr) for updates in case that changes.
> 
> as usual: you are the wind beneath my wings. thanks for reading and being awesome.


	8. Chapter 8

* * *

 

Percival— _Mr. Graves_ , Credence corrected himself, he was Mr. Graves again—didn’t return to visit Credence for five days. In the interim, Credence slotted back into his old life with Ma and the Second Salemers fitfully. After the first day, Ma rarely hit him. She seemed preoccupied, which on its face was a blessing. 

Over and over, he considered making his way back to the Graves estate on his own somehow, or to the MACUSA offices, anyplace where he could find Mr. Graves and talk with him, understand why he had done this, understand more about how he wanted Credence to help.

Mostly, he just wanted to see him, and have him see Credence in return. To convince himself that the last few months had really happened. That he hadn’t imagined it all, that life with Ma wasn’t all there was. It was difficult not to begin to believe otherwise, and he clung to memories fiercely. 

For their part, the Second Salemers appeared to have drastically streamlined their operations. They didn’t minister on the streets anymore. Instead, Credence and the girls spent most days in the basement sewing together cheap shirts and trousers. Ma insisted they were for charity, but she had Credence carry them several blocks away to a factory every other day or so when they’d completed enough. He thought she was probably just selling them. But if Mr. Graves was still giving her money, why did she need the extra income? 

He had trouble sleeping at night. He spent hours tossing around, anxiously wondering if Mr. Graves had truly forgotten about him, or worse, decided it was better to never return. 

When he did sleep, he had loud, disquieting nightmares about invisible monsters, roars that echoed through the streets, buildings collapsing, cold night air rushing so fast past his face his skin stung.

On the morning of the sixth day, he decided he needed to take matters into his own hands. Mr. Graves might return to check his progress any day now, and even though he’d given Credence very little to work on, perhaps this was a test.

After all, the child he was looking for needed help, according to Mr. Graves, and Mr. Graves was desperate to protect him or her. That sounded more like Percival, the bondmate he had come to—to care for, so deeply, rather than the Mr. Graves that had left him here. It was hope, at least.

If he was going to find some illusory child, he needed to interact with more children than just Chastity and Modesty, sitting in the basement sewing clothing together in the dim light. But there was no way he could suggest anything to Ma himself. She spent most of her time upstairs, or out on furtive errands. When she was around, she watched Credence stonily, and he kept his head down, reflexively falling into his old role of doing his best to stay out of her way. He had to think more cleverly. He tried to think how Mr. Graves might coordinate things.

He ended up going through Chastity instead.

“Chastity, are you ever lonely?” 

He was sitting near her in the basement, struggling to thread a needle in the flickering overhead light. Chastity was scowling as she completed the hemming on the trousers in her hand. She’d always hated needlework. Modesty was folding shirts a ways away.

Chastity kept her eyes stubbornly on the fabric in front of her. “No. I have Modesty.” She paused, and as an afterthought, “and you.” She’d been skittish around him since he’d returned, but still tended to shadow him, and he could always feel her eyes watching hm. 

“Didn’t you like when the other children were around?” he pressed. “When we used to serve the meals to the orphans?”

Across the room, Modesty stilled in her folding and counting.

“I don’t know,” Chastity muttered. She finished the final stitch and let the trousers drop to her lap. “Maybe. It doesn’t matter.”

“I hope that we get to resume the meals soon,” Credence said, letting a note of wistfulness enter his voice. “It seems like a much better use of our Christian charity than sewing all day and night.” 

“I _hate_ sewing,” Chastity burst out vehemently.

“Chastity,” Modesty called out, quelling. “Come help me carry these upstairs.”

Chastity sighed and stood, but before she joined Modesty, she looked down at Credence. She hesitated, then took off the thimble on her pinkie finger and tossed it down to him. “Here,” she mumbled. “You keep poking yourself.” 

Credence caught the thimble and gazed at it, surpringingly touched. “I’m hopeless at sewing,” he agreed ruefully.

“You really are." Chastity turned and followed Modesty up the stairs. 

To Credence’s surprise, the wheels of his rudimentary plan began unfolding immediately afterward. 

When he was carrying his completed clothing projects upstairs that evening, Ma was home, overseeing the girls as they packed the clothes into boxes. She saw Credence approaching and setting his clothes into one of the boxes.

“You might as well know too,” she began, stiffly, “I was telling your sisters that we will hold a Sunday meal for the orphans again tomorrow.” She smiled at Chastity, who blushed and kept her head down. “As dear, sweet Chastity has reminded me, we have been remiss in our duties to the needy children of this community.” She walked by Credence and pinched his ear as she whispered into it, “You would do well to take after your sister, although I doubt your sinful mind will ever let you.” 

She threw his head away as she released his ear and Credence didn’t resist the movement. His earlobe hurt a little, but mostly he was pleased that his feeble machinations had bore fruit so early. 

From across the room, Modesty was watching him. 

Later, she caught up with him as he was readying for bed. The girls slept in the bedroom on the second floor, while Credence made do with a thin pallet in the small storage closet under the stairs. He woke every morning sore to his bones. His time away had softened him. He did his best not to compare it to the sumptuous bed in his room at the estate, the feather mattress that hugged him so carefully he suspected there was some kind of spell at work. He especially did not let himself think of curling up with Mr. Graves at night, touching one another intently in a safe cocoon under the sheets. He focused on arranging his single threadbare blanket for the night.

He focused instead on arranging his single threadbare blanket for the night.

He jumped when Modesty spoke from behind him. “I know you’re up to something.” When he turned, hand on his chest, he saw Modesty regarding him warily.

“My goodness, Modesty!” His heart was pounding. “You move so quietly. It’s unsettling.” 

“Didn’t you hear me? I know you’re plotting."

Credence could only huff. She made him sound like an evil mastermind. Mostly he was scrambling, trying to find some way to make sense of all this and complete whatever vague mission he’d been set on so he could go home to Mr. Graves again.

“What does it matter?” He folded the rag pillow twice to give it a semblance of firmness. “I’m here now. Ma won. You won. It makes no difference what I’m thinking.”

He expected her to argue more, but as he turned back to his pallet, he heard her slump against the wall. He did his best to ignore her, drawing back the blanket so he could get into bed. He went to extinguish the candle to give the hint that she should leave now, but he paused, looking at the way she was sitting with her arms wrapped around her legs, chin on her knees. She looked so young.

“She said she was saving you,” Modesty admitted. Credence wasn’t sure exactly which time she meant, so he waited and sure enough, she went on, sounding miserable. “She said Mr. Graves was keeping you against your will, and if you could just see the error of your ways, the devil would leave you and you would be free to choose the light.” She glanced away as though embarrassed. “You would choose us again.” 

He shook his head, exasperated. She’d been in the house, she’d seen them together, she’d met Mr. Graves. “But I wasn’t in danger, Modesty. You have to know that, you have to have _seen_ that, when you visited.” 

“The devil can twist the truth,” Modesty hedged. She glanced away. “Although you did seem happy there, I guess.” There was a tension in her voice.

Credence wondered if it was envy. “Modesty, I told you and Chastity you were welcome—”

“I never wanted to live with Mr. Graves!” She stomped her foot. “I just wanted you to come _home_ , and to help with ministry, and to live with us again.” Frustration seemed to bleed from her every pore. “I just want things to stay the same. Why must everything always change?”

“What else is changing, Modesty?”

Modesty stood abruptly. “I need to help Ma sort the leaflets for street ministry before bed.” 

“We haven’t held street ministry all week.” 

“You think you just know everything, don’t you?” she said with a sniff, and stomped out of the cupboard, leaving Credence alone. 

He dreamt that night that he was standing with Mr. Graves on a bridge near the water. “I don’t want you,” Mr. Graves-in-the-dream was saying. “I never wanted you.” Credence-in-the-dream screamed in anguish, and reared back and threw out both hands until some sort of light erupted from them and hit Mr. Graves square in the chest. 

Credence shot awake, eyes wide as his chest rose and fell like he’d been fleeing evil in the night.

He didn’t sleep any more that night.

The next day, mass was interminable. Ma spent hours reading directly from the bible as street children filed into the church, word of the Sunday meal having spread. Credence did his best not to squirm on the hard bench and cast his eyes surreptitiously over the growing crowd of children. He had no idea what he was looking for.

One girl was watching Ma raptly. There was a bright, enthralled light in her eyes. Credence narrowed his eyes, looking closer. Was that what a potential magical child (for he had to believe that the kind of special child Mr. Graves might be looking for was magical, otherwise why would it be of such urgency?) might look like? Was that what he had looked like, to Mr. Graves’ eyes, that had caught his attention and made him offer for Credence in the first place?

He had no idea, and now he might not even get to ask.

He turned back to Ma, and saw that she was looking up from her bible, eyes on him. Watchful.

After mass finally came to a merciful close, the children were ravenous. They swarmed the narthex where the tables were set up, restless with hunger, searching for the tiniest crumb. It made Credence feel sick to see, their thin, frantic faces, how they watched one another with hawk’s eyes ready to pounce if another child managed to find any extra food. It was soulless. These children deserved more than to be treated like this. And here was Credence, who had orchestrated this meal from behind the scenes all so he could search among them for some kind of magical messiah.

He was troubled as he went with Chastity to finish the soup. Behind them, Ma’s voice rang out, “You must finish your catechism before you eat.” None of the children dared to object, although an air of desperation settled over the group as they trudged to the workbooks and leaflets set out on the tables. 

The soup was a meal in name only. In reality, it was water and vegetable peelings and a tiny bit of pepper. Credence got to work heating it up, while Chastity washed potatoes. Credence was distracted, thinking of the hungry faces of the children, wishing there was some way to save them from this cold, heartless life they’d been given, but not knowing how, since he wasn’t even sure how to save himself. 

Beside him, Chastity was singing something. It took him a moment to recognize it, but then he did and he felt his face harden. It was a lilting version of a horrible song she’d learned a year or two ago. He thought she’d gotten out of the habit, but apparently, she’d regressed. 

“My momma, your momma, witches never cry. My momma, your momma, witches gonna die!” she sang the climax with relish. 

It had unsettled Credence then, but now, hearing her sing merrily about witches dying, he pictured actual magical beings that he knew now, and the song was unspeakable.

“Stop it, Chastity,” Credence said drearily. He wiped the beads of sweat collecting on his forehead, the vat of stew wafting steam into his face.

“You’re not the boss of me.” 

He felt on the edge of en eruption. “It’s a dreadful song. Stop singing it.”

She took a breath defiantly. “My momma, your momma, gonna catch a witch—”

“Those are people!” Credence burst out. “Real people, like you or me or Mr. Graves. How can you sing about them like that? How can you stand listening to Ma talk the way she does?”

Chastity was stunned into silence. Credence didn’t think he’d ever fully lost his temper with her. He was having trouble fully assuming the lifeless, silent mantle he’d perfected from before. Chastity was a child, he reminded himself. She didn’t know better. 

They continued cooking in silence, Credence stirring the cauldron of soup, Chastity carefully chopping potatoes into uniform chunks and tossing them into the broth. It settled comfortably into a rhythm, and Credence fell back into dull melancholy.

“What does it feel like, being magic?” Modesty asked carefully, surprising Credence enough that he bobbled his grip on the spoon.

He glanced at her and saw only curiosity. He considered, unsure how to encapsulate it all, and settled on, “It’s a little frightening.”

“Why?” 

Credence found himself smiling absently. That used to be Chastity’s favorite question.

“I can’t quite explain it.” He set the stirring spoon on the rim of the pot and set back on his heels. “I don’t feel like I know what I’m doing. I should have been trained when I was younger, and now it feels like my, my _magic_ , or my power, whatever it really is, it turned out—wrong, somehow.”

He looked to see Chastity frowning, partially in confusion, he thought. Nothing he’d said had made much sense. He looked down at the soup. It was ready.

“We better get this out there.”

Ma had decided to serve the children on the street outside the church. Ma said it was so the children could take in the fresh, restorative air, but Credence assumed it was actually so passersby could see their good works and feel compelled or guilted into donating. A bright red donation bucket was set up prominently by the sidewalk.

She collected their booklets and directed them to carry the long, heavy wooden tables out, which they did, laboriously, each table needing at least eight children to heft it through the door. Credence hurried to get the soup out so he could return to help with the tables. He caught the edge of one right before it toppled over, out of the hands of a short dark-haired boy with a narrow, pinched face. He had a wine-colored birthmark on his cheek. 

“I’ve got it,” the boy snapped crankily, scrabbling to regain his grip.

“I know you have,” Credence said easily. “I just thought I’d give you a hand.”

“If I don’t work, I don’t eat,” the boy insisted. “Don’t try and steal my job.”

They maneuvered the table the rest of the way in silence, Credence careful not to take too much of the weight so the boy didn’t think he was patronizing him. 

He didn’t realize Ma was near until she spoke in his ear, making him jump. “Bring that boy to me,” she said, nodding at the boy with the birthmark who was hurrying industriously inside to help with another table.

“Why?” Credence asked.

Ma wrapped her hand around his wrist, nails digging into the skin painfully. “I know you saw his mark. I saw you looking. Now, you ask any more questions and you’ll be getting a whipping. Bring him to me.” 

The look in her eyes was off-putting. Credence pulled away and went after the boy.

The boy was tugging at the remaining table, but he was the only child still inside, the rest drawn back out by the promise of food. He tugged at the table but its immense weight foiled him. He pulled again to no avail, and sighed, fisting his scrawny hands at his hips as he glared at the table, attempting to strategize.

Credence looked at the boy and thought of the light in Ma’s eye, and the cagey way she’d been behaving this past week, and made up his mind. 

He went into the back of the narthex and grabbed a loaf of the stale bread they usually served with the soup. He returned to where the boy had bent to tie his shoe behind the remaining table. He startled when Credence knelt beside him.

“Take this bread and go away from here,” he said. “It’s not safe for you.” 

The boy looked at him warily, probably suspecting Credence was trying to trick him out of more food. But he also seemed like the type who had survived for some time on the streets, and that didn’t happen by refusing to heed the warnings of grownups. 

The boy took the bread and backed away.

“Go quickly,” Credence urged, and the boy nearly tripped over his feet in his haste to obey. 

Credence watched him go, grimly satisfied. And although he was reasonably sure he’d saved the child from Ma’s clutches, he also realized he wasn’t sure what to do about Mr. Graves’ request, either. Credence couldn’t single out a child for Mr. Graves without knowing more about why. He trusted his bondmate, or he thought had, before this, but he also trusted himself, he decided, now more than ever as his entire life was in upheaval again. Perhaps he and Mr. Graves would reconcile and this would become nothing more than a sour memory of their bonding, but until then, and if God forbid it didn’t wrap up that easily, he needed to rely on his own instincts. They were what had kept him safe for most of his life, after all. 

Something was afoot, with Ma and with Mr. Graves, separately or in conjunction, and until he figured out what that was, he couldn’t risk an innocent child’s safety, magical or No-Maj or squib notwithstanding.

He was so lost in thought he was caught unawares by Ma once again. She walked even quieter than Modesty.

“What did you just do?”

He jerked around and saw she was behind him again. Her face was red with anger, and something else. Perhaps she’d seen the whole encounter with the boy with the birthmark. 

“I,” he started, but she cut him off, slapping him across the cheek. His head snapped to the side. She hadn’t hit him since that first night, but that had just served to make him feel more on edge. Now he felt at least on certain ground. He knew how this would go. His back had even had time to heal, and the older wounds from the first day Mr. Graves had brought him back home would probably only sting a little during this fresh beating. 

“Give me your belt, you stupid, selfish boy.”

He could argue, fight back. Explain that he was protecting the boy. But that would prolong everything. If he was to trust himself and what he knew to be true in this world, then getting a punishment over as quickly as possible was what had served him bet in the past.

He took off the belt and gave it to Ma, but before he could turn around and lift his shirt, she stopped him.

“Hold out your hands,” she said.

He hated when she beat his hands. It was somehow more painful and humiliating than being belted on the back, the marks clear for the entire world to see. 

“Do it, or it’s your face,” she warned.

He held out his hands.

It was quick but brutal. The belt’s thick edges sliced his palms open, blood seeping onto his cuffs.

“Clean yourself, and go help your sisters finish serving the meal.” 

He obeyed without thinking. He cleaned his hands as best he could and returned outside. The meal was nearly over, the children descending quickly on their food like locusts, scraping chunks of bread to catch every last drop of thin broth. 

He stood beside Chastity and began handing out bread mechanically.

“Are you alright?” Chastity asked uncertainly out of the corner of her mouth.

Credence didn’t answer. He wished he were anywhere but here.

But as the children dispersed and Credence was helping to clean up after the meal, he glanced to this left and saw what he thought must at first be a dream.

He was stumbling toward the corner of the street before he realized what he was doing. He felt dizzy with relief.

Mr. Graves had come. He was finally here. 

He was waiting on the street corner, silently calling Credence forward like a beacon. He smiled as Credence became clumsy in his hurry. 

He wanted to throw himself into Mr.Graves' arms, the burning in his palms making his head feel fuzzy and unclear, but when he reached him, before Credence could say anything, Mr. Graves held up his hand.

“Credence. Have you found the child?” he asked straight away. 

It left Credence feeling wrong-footed. He cradled his hands against his chest, confused. It was such a relief to see him, and yet Credence couldn’t appreciate it. His head was a muddle. “I can’t.” 

Mr. Graves looked impatient, whether at Credence’s failure or his emotional outburst or both, but he seemed to be making an effort to remain calm. He held out of his hands, and for a moment he seemed the same as before—caring, affectionate. 

“Show me.” 

Credence shrank back, ashamed and uncertain all at once, and he wasn’t quite sure why. He should want Mr. Graves’ comfort, his protection. But he found himself backing away.

Mr. Graves managed to capture Credence’s hands in his and examined the cuts on the palms. The scores were deep and red and they throbbed so hard he thought he should be able to see his pulse beating through the damaged skin. Mr. Graves inspected the wounds almost dispassionately.

He looked up at Chastity, who was hovering curiously nearby. 

“You, girl,” he said to her. “Bring me the necklace.” 

Chastity hurried away to obey, but when Credence opened his mouth to ask what necklace he was talking about, Mr. Graves shushed him. He drew Credence closer, speaking into his neck. The breath on Credence’s skin made him shiver, not altogether pleasantly. 

“Shh, my boy, the sooner we find this child, the sooner you can put that pain in the past where it belongs.”

He passed his thumb over the cuts on his palm, and Credence watched in silence as the wounds knitted themselves back together, then faded and disappeared, leaving nothing behind but a slight tingling. 

Behind them, there was the sound of light footsteps, and Credence turned to see Chastity watching them.

“Thank you, my dear,” Mr. Graves said, taking a necklace from her. “You may go.”

“Credence,” Chastity said uncertainly.

“I said, you may go,” Mr. Graves repeated, brooking no room for argument. 

But Chastity hesitated, and Credence turned his head to meet her eyes. She looked worried, and whatever she saw on his face didn’t seem to calm her. 

“I’ll be inside shortly,” he said. “Go on.” 

She left, slowly, reluctantly, and when Credence returned his gaze to Mr. Graves, he saw the man frowning after her. The expression smoothed away as he looked down at Credence. He took the necklace, an odd triangle pendant with a circle in the middle, and slid it over Credence’s head so the triangle rested over his heart.

“I want you to have this, Credence. I would trust very few with it, but you’re different.”

It was an echo of Mr. Graves from before— _you’re special **,** Credence, you’re special to me_—but unlike those treasured times before, Credence found himself unable to believe the words. Unable to believe Mr. Graves, standing before him, an earnest expression on his face, every move and word so smooth, so practiced. 

“Now, when you find the child, touch this symbol and I will know, and I will come to you. Do this and you will be honored among wizards,” Mr. Graves whispered. He covered the pendant over Credence’s chest. “Forever.” 

Mr. Graves pulled him into an embrace, his hand on his neck, and it felt more controlling than affectionate. Still, Credence felt overwhelmed by the contact, despite his feelings of unease. He closed his eyes, relaxing into it just slightly. 

Almost immediately, Mr. Graves pulled away, stroking Credence’s neck. Credence kept his eyes closed, wishing for the contact to continue, wishing, wishing. 

“The child is dying, Credence. Time is running out.” 

Mr. Graves rubbed the palm of his hand on the back of Credence's neck one last time, and a powerful jolt shocked him, like static electricity but concentrated, defensive. Like his magic was rejecting the contact. Inside Credence, his heart skipped a beat. It wobbled between one beat and the next, painfully, something dark squeezing it in warning before releasing, sending it skittering into double-time to catch up.

Credence blinked in sudden realization. 

Mr. Graves let him go abruptly. “I will see you again soon,” he promised. He turned and walked away, disappearing into the early evening mist.

Credence could only watch, staring in shock.

That wasn’t his bondmate, he thought with perfect confidence, and also dawning terror. Whoever that was, it wasn’t Mr. Graves—it wasn’t Percival.

 

* * *

 

Graves faded in and out of awareness. It had been nearly a full day since he’d been given water, twice that since his last bowl of thin porridge. He'd never felt so damn weak and useless in his life. It sickened him, more than the hunger or the thirst combined. He was helpless to help himself, but more importantly, he was helpless to do anything for Credence, and it was that thought that was slowly driving him out of his head.

He was also reasonably confident that he was being held in the cellar of his own estate, deep in one of the old labyrinthine storage corridors that hadn’t seen much use for over fifty years. 

He’d had days (a week perhaps, he’d estimate) to study the walls and the concrete floor and he’d eventually noticed that he recognized the concentrated scent of neglect that permeated the air. He’d played in these cellars as a boy, until Prudentia had found him one afternoon and then spent the rest of the night telling pointed, gruesome stories about the ghosts and ghouls that dwelled in the basement and successfully frightened him almost to death. The entire sub-basement had been magically sealed the next summer, although he could never be sure if Prudentia had told his father. Probably not. She’d always had a soft spot for him. 

Such a good house elf, he thought drowsily. 

He never stopped to speculate whether one day he’d find himself in the dank underground space again entirely against his will, face to face with the kind of monster Prudentia would never have thought to include in a scary story. Funny how things worked out.

“This new pet of mine is very clever.”

With a shake of his head, Graves focused on the man in front of him. He was pacing excitedly. Usually, Graves liked to let his own mind wander during Grindelwald's pontificating, but he was immediately alert at any mention of Credence. 

“He’s quite pretty, in a wet kitten in the rain kind of way,” Grindelwald drawled. He gestured idly, still disconcertingly Polyjuiced to resemble Graves.

It was always jarring to stare into your own face as it talked to you. Graves was acclimating, but the initial shock never really went away.

He noticed his hair was getting just a little thin at the crown, which would have bothered him if things weren't as they were. Otherwise, Grindelwald kept him impeccably turned-out, possibly more so than Grave was otherwise wont to do on his own. Grindelwald was a bit of a dandy, it seemed.

“You’ve groomed him well enough to accept your touch. I was quite surprised, really. Today he nearly pressed his face into my hand like a housecat starved for affection. What a sweet treat he is.”

Like a fool, Graves let his head snap up, a snarl already on his lips. He stared into Grindelwald’s eyes and tried not to react to the note of triumph in the other wizard’s face at evincing a reaction. 

“I did not groom him,” Graves ground out. “He is my bondmate. He’s not a child.”

“Whatever you need to tell yourself for comfort,” Grindelwald replied smarmily.

Without warning, Grindelwald brought his wand down in a striking motion, and Graves felt a cut open wide on his forearm, blood immediately bursting forth in a jet. A small porcelain bowl appeared from nowhere and floated busily to catch the blood before it splashed to the floor.

Grindelwald didn’t need to cut Graves to acquire the necessary material for the potion. He could just as easily pluck a hair or trim his nails. No, the cutting was something Graves suspected Grindelwald did for his own entertainment, such as it were. 

In response, Graves didn’t necessarily need to roll his eyes in exaggerated boredom as Grindelwald collected the blood into the little bowl, but Graves enjoyed the way Grindelwald subtly ground his teeth when Graves refused to show signs of pain, and well, Graves did spend his days bound to a wall grate in a dank basement. He had to manufacture his own fun as well, so he decided he didn’t begrudge Grindelwald his own. 

When Graves was just getting lightheaded from blood loss (Grindelwald always took more than he needed, more than enough to make Graves feel ill for the rest of the day), the wound on his arm closed abruptly, the skin knitting painfully back together with rough, careless magic.

“He’s managed to settle back in with that horrid family of his quite nicely.”

The realization that Grindelwald had returned Credence to his mother had left Graves reeling for days, after Grindelwald had first come to gloat over it. It had been a little like suffocating, knowing that while Graves was tied up like an idiot in his basement, Credence was back in his own personal hell, and under the impression that Graves had sent him there after promising he would never send him back. Graves couldn’t bear to imagine what Credence must think of him. The betrayal he must feel. It choked the breath from him.

“Meanwhile, things at the office are carrying along swimmingly. You’ve created quite a little kingdom for yourself, haven’t you? It’s been delightful to explore all the benefits of your rank.” He glared archly down at Graves, waiting. 

Graves got the sense Grindelwald desperately wanted to boast about all the sordid mischief he was getting up to while piloting Graves’ face around town, but Graves stonily refused to participate. If the bigheaded fool wanted to brag, he could do it on his own time. Graves would not beg for information. All he needed to know was that Credence was alive and well, and for the time being, he was. If Picquery and the rest of MACUSA hadn’t noticed anything odd with Graves so far, they could go to hell. 

“A few of your Aurors have asked about my little pet, but I’ve told them he decided to return to his family. They were so sad when they heard I needed to Obliviate him. Your assistant in particular has quite the mouth on her, when you get her riled up. Of course I had to fire her after her outburst, and several other Aurors who stepped out of place. You definitely ran a lax ship, which I’ve had to correct.”

He droned on. Graves let his eyes drift half-closed. He could feel a throbbing pulse in his belly, his nameline power calling out for his bondmate. They’d never been separated this long before. He hoped Credence wasn’t suffering too much from the strained bond. Or from everything else that had befallen him, because of Graves’ carelessness. 

He tuned in for the tail-end of Grindelwald’s screed. “—don’t know why they grew so attached, when it’s clear he belongs with his filthy muggle family and his addlepated mother.”

Graves took careful note of both that Grindelwald was no stranger to Mary Lou, filing it away to puzzle over later, and also that he seemed to possess no true sense of irony. 

Grindelwald sniffed. “Typical of their race.”

“Mary Lou is a crackpot,” Graves corrected tiredly, unsure why he was bothering. Grindelwald was just such a snob. It was strangely one of the most annoying things about him, in a personality filled with annoying things. “She’s no more representative of the No-Maj world at large than you are of wizards.”

The dig flew right past his head. “She is _more_ than representative,” Grindelwald insisted. His eyes lit up, eager to debate. Graves groaned silently. The man was enamored of his own eloquence. “Muggles are a lesser race, a pack of animals teeming with brutality and savagery who would like nothing more than to obliterate wizarding kind. They hate what they do not understand.” 

“They’re still people,” Graves found himself muttering. He wasn’t really tracking the conversation, so he was surprised he was still arguing his point. 

“They’re sub-human.”

What was it Credence had insisted, all those weeks ago? Graves smiled to himself. He was pretty dizzy from the bloodletting. “They still have their own inner souls.” He thought of Credence’s face, cheeks pink with passion, nervous at his daring but refusing to back down. He'd been magnificent. “We’re not more valuable than a No-Maj just because of our magic. Mary Lou Barebone is far from unique. Crackpots manage to exist everywhere.” He eyed Grindelwald meaningfully.

There was a crack from the wand in Grindelwald’s hand (Graves’ wand, which he’d appropriated) and Graves’ head knocked back against the grate. Shadowy spots fluttered across his vision. He felt nauseous. He breathed carefully in and out through his mouth until the pain lessened to a dull ache in the back of his head.

“Anyway,” Grindelwald said, stepping back. “I’ll be sure to be especially kind to your boy when next I see him.” 

“You’re too kind,” Graves managed to grind out. He was pleased that he managed to sound so condescending, even through the hoarseness. 

“I am,” Grindelwald agreed. “The boy will soon come to know the same, I’m sure.”

A shudder of dread ran through Graves at the words.

In a flourish, Grindelwald Disapparated from the basement. Graves was left alone, hopelessly tugging against his restraints. 

He thought of Credence. He found himself sending a helpless wish through the bond magic, not even sure if it would work, but desperate all the same.

 _Keep him safe_ , he thought, trying not to despair. _Keep him safe for me._

He felt an answering pulse in his belly, and hoped that meant the nameline would do its best. It was all he could hope for now.

  

* * *

 

The knowledge that someone was impersonating Percival did not distress Credence nearly as much as the thought that something had _happened_ to him. Was he hurt somewhere, was he alone, was he frightened? Credence lay awake on his pallet under the stairs and worried, his thoughts chasing themselves in frenzied circles like terrified mice. 

A small corner of his mind was comforted, and he felt shamed that he could feel relief when Percival was presumably in danger. But the knowledge that it had not been his bondmate who had betrayed him, rejected him, sent him back to Ma and her cruelty, was so relieving it was like an embrace. Percival still wanted him, he had to believe it.

And Percival might also be in danger, Credence reminded himself, and went back to worrying again. 

He tried to calm down, thinking that if something terrible had truly happened, the bond would have given some notice, some reaction. As it were, it was nothing but a listlessness that tugged at the pit of his stomach, like it was calling for something that could not respond. Wouldn’t it know if Percival were...if Percival had died?

The choking sensation of tears crept up his throat at the thought, and at his own powerlessness. Any wizard who had the ability to incapacitate Percival to the extent that they could assume his identity must possess magic far outside Credence’s tenuous understanding of the craft. And if Credence made it known that he suspected something, without a counter-plan of attack or strategy at the ready, would the imposter kill Percival in retribution? Would he kill Credence, leaving Percival alone to fight this? 

No, he needed to think. Much like manipulating Ma to reinstate Sunday meals with the orphans, he could think of something. He just needed to untangle who it was that had overtaken Percival’s body, and why they were so fixated on finding a child. And how he could somehow fool them into thinking he’d sacrifice a child for them, while also coaxing them to reveal what had happened to Percival, and how to retrieve him— 

It was hopeless. He rubbed the heels of his hands into his eye sockets until lights danced behind his lids. He couldn’t do this.

He was still reeling with anxiety the next morning, having slept little and poorly. Ma kicked the door to his closet, jerking him up onto his feet.

“There’s no time for laziness, you ungodly burden of a boy,” she snapped through the door. “Get up and fix breakfast. I have meetings today.” He wondered why important meetings Ma could possibly have, but he didn't argue, rising and dressing in a hurry.

When he went into the makeshift kitchen in the back of the church in the narthex, he saw Ma already slipping out the door.

He set down the pan in his hand. He knew, suddenly, that if he wanted to figure out what had happened to Percival, he needed to get to the bottom of what Ma had gotten herself involved in. Until he could rule it out, he could assume they were connected and start from there. 

There was a shuffling behind him. He turned to see Chastity and Modesty watching him uncertainly. Behind them was a box of clothes they’d finished yesterday. Inspiration struck. 

“Ma forgot to bring those with,” he said, thinking quickly. “I’ll just run and bring them to her.” He hurried to grab the box, eyes on Modesty. 

She studied the box, then looked up at him. She knew he was lying. He could see it in her eyes. But to his surprise, she nodded. “Okay.” Chastity looked at her in surprise. Modesty bit her lip, then nodded again, more firmly. “Take care, now.” 

He couldn’t quite believe it, but it seemed like Modesty was giving him a pass. It might be a trick that she would make him pay for later, when Ma was back and she could tattle on him, but for now, it didn’t matter.

“I’ll be back soon,” he promised.

“I’ll come with,” Chastity offered, stepping forward, but Modesty drew her back.

“You need to stay.” To Credence, Modesty said merely, “Hurry, if you want to catch her.”

He offered her a small smile in thanks, and turned to hurry out the door.

As soon as he was on the street, he set the box beside the stairs and broke into a jog, hoping Ma hadn’t gone too far away.

He turned the corner and headed north, beginning to worry he’d lost her. But then he turned onto twenty-fifth, into the heavier crowds of the main thoroughfare, and just up ahead, he recognized the plain brown curve of Ma’s hat, bumping evenly up the road.

He followed silently, taking great care to remain a good twenty feet behind. Wherever she was going, she was in a hurry, and he had to speed up to keep track of her. 

After fifteen minutes of trailing her, Ma turned suddenly up a side alley. Credence crept to the corner and peered around it. The alley was empty save for Ma, and he watched her come to stand in front of a tall, dark building. It looked abandoned. She didn’t knock on the door, waiting patiently instead.

Suddenly, a man appeared in front of her with the telltale _crack_ of an Apparition spell. 

A wizard, then. Ma didn’t look nervous or surprised to see the magic right before her. Then, Ma hadn’t seemed overly taken aback when Percival had first brought them to the estate, and he and Silas had discussed magic and bonding so openly in front of her.

Feeling foolish, he understood that Ma was no stranger to magic. She knew of it, knew of it intimately it seemed, and her fixation on it as a source of her devotional activism began to fall into place.

The wizard was stocky and middle-aged, with a puffy face, well-dressed in a way that reminded Credence vaguely of Percival. He had blond hair so light it was almost white, swept up into studied disarray on the top of his head and a florid blond mustache beneath his nose. 

Even though Credence didn’t know him, something about him sent a small shiver through him, his shoulder rising and falling uncomfortably.

Ma and the man began to speak, the conversation quickly turning animated, but with the noise from the main street and the distance, Credence couldn’t hear a word. 

He needed to hear what they were talking about. But he couldn’t get closer and risk revealing himself. He needed a way to listen from afar.

He needed his magic. 

He thought of Silas telling him to visualize what he wanted his magic to do, go on, my boy, just try it. He closed his eyes, reaching blindly for it. As always, he was uneasy by the immensity of whatever wrested within him. It felt like opening a tiny spigot on a water tower, and hoping the pressure of the thing wouldn’t implode and drown everyone in its wake. 

A bead of sweat slid down his forehead as he wrestled with it. For a dizzying moment, he thought he had lost control again and the whole dark lot of it would come exploding out of him, but then the tide turned, and he managed to hold it back, withdrawing only a small sliver of that power. 

His arms and legs shook at the invisible strain, but he marveled at his success—he was doing it, he was actually using his magic and it wasn’t using him, he couldn’t believe—focus, he needed to focus, he reminded himself. He

Picking an image at random, he visualized an invisible pipe stretching from his ears to the man and Ma, slipping through the people passing by, until the opening came to rest near their mouths. He imagined it carrying the sound to his ears.

With a start, he heard the sound of voices. 

He could hear them. He had used his magic. He wasn't sure how, but it was happening. He could hear them speaking as clearly as if they were speaking into his ear.

“I’ve managed to gather the rest of the down-payment,” Ma was saying with satisfaction. “My children will keep producing textiles to maintain our mortgage, and my benefactor should cover the rest.”

“I’m so glad to hear that,” the man said. He smiled condescendingly. “It’s always nice to see a good-hearted soul get what she deserves.”

Ma tilted her head. “I don’t pretend to understand why a heathen such as yourself would help me,” Ma said simply. “But I also believe in accepting God’s gifts from wherever they spring. Even from magic-using sinners, pardon my frankness.”

The man’s lips thinned as he pressed them together. “Of course,” he said tightly. “My only concern is that you’ll be able to maintain your standards of child-rearing in the orphanage.”

An orphanage. It didn’t necessarily surprise Credence that Ma would be seeking to open such an institution, but he didn’t understand why she’d been so secretive about it. Or why she was seemingly partnered with this man.

“As long as the children you bring to me have souls made black from sinful magic, I’ll be able to enforce the same severity and discipline with them as I have my own adopted brood.” 

“You will only be asked to provide shelter for orphans from magical backgrounds, that I can assure you,” the man said smoothly. 

“Then I can assure you I will do my best to break them down and rebuild them in Christ’s own image.”

Ma and the man smiled grimly at one another, the expressions more of a challenge than anything friendly. 

Credence tried to understand what he was hearing. He envisioned the hell they were describing, the man who was almost promising to traffic young witches and wizards to Ma, while she, in turn, would relish the opportunity to impart the same terror and pain upon those children as she’d laid upon Credence.

To what end, though, Credence wondered frantically. Why was Ma partnering with this man, and why was this man willing to betray wizarding kind to torture innocent children? 

He exhaled sharply in frustration, without thinking, and the man’s eyes snapped up and met Credence’s. He looked surprised that Credence could see him, and presumably hear him. 

Before Credence could react, the man pulled out a wand and Disapparated. Ma shook her head disapprovingly but was otherwise unconcerned, and turned as though ready to return to the church.

Credence ducked back from the alley quickly and hurried back toward the church, mind swimming.

He turned the corner near home, barely aware of his surroundings as he tried to puzzle out what he had seen, and ran headfirst into someone else.

He stumbled backward, and felt his mouth all open in shock as he saw Silas before him, looking harried and out of place in his thick coat, a luxurious fur collar framing his face. He looked unnerved as he took Credence in. 

Without thinking, Credence lurched forward. “Silas!” He let the old man catch him and pound him on the back in greeting. The relief of it made his eyes water.

“Credence! Where on earth—I’ve been out of my head with worry.” He held Credence away, examining his face. “What has happened? Where is Percival?” 

Credence wanted to spill all of the things he had learned, his suspicions of what had happened to Percival, the risk that someone had taken his identity, but he caught himself, asking carefully instead, “You haven’t seen him?” 

“I haven’t seen either of you!” Silas boomed, aggrieved. “I come home from a perfectly ordinary vacation to find my household deserted, my son and his bondmate have disappeared, and my son won’t even take my firecalls at his office.” 

“I’m sorry, I should have sent a note,” Credence began, cowed at the idea of Silas frantically trying to find them, worried about their safety. The last thing he wanted was to upset the man who had taken him in as a son.

“That’s alright, don’t worry about that, it’s alright,” Silas said, pounding him comfortingly on the back. For a brief, shining moment, Credence felt relieved. Everything would be alright. 

There was a sharp crack, and an aggravated sigh from behind them.

“Why am I not surprised to find you here interfering,” a cold voice rang out from several feet away. 

Credence pulled away from Silas and saw Percival, or Not-Percival, Not-Graves at least, the stranger who was wearing his bondmate’s face. He hunched his shoulders, instantly wary.

Silas turned on him. “Percival! There you are, why in Merlin’s name—I’ve been worried sick. Why haven’t you been home? Why is Credence dressed like an urchin?”

But Not-Graves was looking past him, zeroing in on Credence. “My, what a busy little bee you’ve been today.”

Credence’s eyes widened, confused. Not-Graves looked distinctly peeved by him, perhaps because of Silas—but it wasn’t as though he’d _summoned_ him, Silas had just appeared. 

For his part, Silas was drawing himself up to his full height. “What is the meaning of this, Percival?” He glared at Not-Graves in outrage. “Explain yourself. Why have I found your bondmate on the street?”

“He’s hardly homeless, father,” Not-Graves said unflappably. “He’s back with his mother. He wants to be here. Right, Credence?” He looked guilelessly at Credence, and when he didn’t deny it, Not-Graves looked pleased. So he wanted Credence to play along, then. He could do that, if it would settle things. 

“But that woman is a viper!” Silas looked ready to explode.

“It is none of your concern. I am a grown man, father. My bond is my business.” He sounded so confident it was almost easy to forget that it wasn’t Percival himself appealing to his father’s sense of justice, but Credence reminded himself that it wasn’t real, this wasn’t Percival.

“Your bond is the business of the nameline, you arrogant child,” Silas thundered.

“Do not,” Not-Graves said lowly, voice sounding deadly, “speak to me that way.” 

A flicker of fear ran through Credence. He stepped forward slightly, bringing Silas to his side, suddenly worried for the old man.

Silas did not seem to feel similarly worried, so much as wildly perplexed. “He is of our nameline. You do not abandon your nameline.” He was thunderous. He grabbed Not-Graves by the coat lapel and shook him. Credence saw with a twist in his chest that Silas’ hand was shaking. 

Not-Graves was unmoved. He pulled the fabric of his coat from his father’s fingers. 

“I believe you’ve bullied me for the last time,” Not-Graves replied.

“I’ve heard enough of this malarkey.” Silas turned to Credence. “Come, my boy, I’m taking you home. There is no reason for you to stay here,” he said urgently. “The Graves estate is as much your home now as mine. Any effort to remove you would never hold up in court.” This last he spat in Not-Graves’ direction, who remained unperturbed. 

Credence kept his sight on the ground. “It’s what Mr. Graves wants.” 

Silas looked ready to throttle him. “Snap out of it, my boy. Where has your spark gone?” He searched Credence’s face like he was looking for a clue, some indication that Credence was hiding something. He reached for Credence’s arm. “Credence, there 

Not-Graves’ voice rang out chillingly. “If you remove him from here, you’ll regret it.” Credence was briefly amazed that he had ever mistaken him for his bondmate in the first place. He couldn’t imagine a reality where Percival spoke to his father that hatefully.

Blustering, Silas said, “As the head of the nameline, I have the authority to protect all bonded members.”

“I doubt you’ll be so for long. You should be getting an owl from the family lawyer soon. I’ve made a motion to remove you as head of the nameline.” 

Not-Graves looked at Credence meaningfully. Credence felt hideously slow, unsure what Not-Graves was trying to communicate to him, but sure whatever it was, it was nothing good. 

“On what grounds?” Silas asked, voice beginning to tremble just slightly. Barely noticeable, but Credence heard it. From the gleam in his eye, Not-Graves heard it too.

“Mental incompetence. Men your age have largely passed on the nameline responsibilities. It’s more than time for you to do the same.” Not-Graves cast a telling glance at Credence. Credence bit back his own complaints. It was getting easier and easier with practice, like riding a bike. 

Silas was furious, but Credence could see uncertainty stealing into his eyes. Hurt. Fear. His only son was threatening him, and Credence realized, he was the only one who could put a stop to this.

He understood what Not-Graves was trying to tell him, now. 

“Stop this, Silas,” Credence said to Silas, interceding quietly. He stepped back from Silas. “It’s alright. Mr. Graves—Percival is right. I want to stay here.” He swallowed. “This doesn’t concern you. Go home.” 

He steeled himself against the way Silas’ eyes widened just slightly. Credence moved to stand at Not-Graves side, and resolutely did not pull away when he put an arm around Credence’s shoulder. In fact, he found himself doing the opposite. He hated himself for the way he automatically curled into the touch, but he craved it, craved the closeness after being denied it for nearly a week. 

Silas was shaking his head in disbelief. “This is madness,” he muttered, “utter madness.” He looked from Not-Graves to Credence and back again in despair.

Slowly, as though he was exhausted beyond words, Silas reached into his coat pocket and withdrew a wand. Credence’s wand. Even from several feet away, he could feel its pull, the way Credence’s magic called back to it longingly. 

“Take it,” Silas commanded gruffly. He looked over Credence’s shoulder. “I hope you continue your magical study, even if it’s on your own.” He cleared his throat with difficulty. “It has been—it has been an honor to teach you. I will sorely miss our lessons together.” 

Credence felt ready to break apart. He kept his eyes down instead.

After an endless moment, he took the wand. It was warm in his hand.

“Goodbye, father,” Not-Graves said, voice like a door slamming shut.

He watched Silas turn and walk slowly away. He seemed older, frailer. He turned the corner and was gone. Credence wished he could run after him, comfort him, tell him what had happened wasn’t real. But of course he could not.

“You won’t be needing that here,” Not-Graves said, plucking the wand from Credence’s hand and stuffing it into his coat.

He looked down at Credence for a long moment, as though trying to see inside him. Credence looked at the ground, body tense. Hoping he wasn’t giving anything away.

When Not-Graves grasped Credence’s chin to tilt his face up, he tried to look longing. Like all he wanted was to be close to this stranger.

“There is something else,” Not-Graves said, as though imparting a great secret. “Something I haven’t told you. I saw you beside me in New York. You’re the one that gains this child’s trust. You are the key—I saw this. You want to join the wizarding world. I want those things too, Credence. I want them for you. So find the child. Find the child and we’ll all be free.”

He sounded like Ma, but instead of bible imagery, it was magical fanatic nonsense. Same song, different verse. This stranger must think Credence truly stupid, if he thought Credence would be taken in by such a tale. 

But then, he had believed at first, hadn’t he? He was ashamed that he’d been duped. It made him feel like he’d betrayed Percival himself, if Credence had been so easily deceived into believing Percival would hurt him like this. He wouldn’t. 

When Credence remained silent, Not-Graves appeared to take it as discouragement. He pulled Credence closer, tucking him against his chest. It was so familiar, and yet Credence had to hold himself still to keep from panicking.

It was exquisitely unbearable, being held by the body that had become so cherished, that felt the same, that even smelled the same, and knowing at the same time that it was a stranger, and that his real bondmate was somewhere else, trapped, possibly in danger.

“My boy,” Not-Graves murmured patronizingly. He appeared satisfied with Credence's reticence, or at least not suspicious. “You’re doing so well.” He pulled Credence close, cupping the back of his head. Credence closed his eyes and let himself be held. For just a moment, he could believe that nothing had fallen apart. 

Not-Graves stepped away as abruptly as before and disappeared. After a long, defeated moment, Credence turned and trudged the last few blocks to the church.

Ma was waiting for him on the front steps when he arrived. She must have taken the shorter route and beaten him back. He kept his eyes on the ground as he approached, thinking of her with the strange man, discussing her hellish orphanage.

“I heard from the girls you went to deliver a box to the factory,” she said archly. Credence panicked briefly and looked to the side of the stairs.

The box he’d hastily hidden there was gone. Someone had moved it. 

“I hope you will continue to devote that industry to your work today, or you’ll go without supper, and there will be a beating waiting for you,” Ma promised frostily. 

Inside, Chastity was waiting by the door. 

She gave him a small, hidden smile as he passed.

 

* * *

 

“News from the front!” Grindelwald seemed to vibrate with delight, pouring some of the blood he’d freshly collected from Graves into the flask where he kept the Polyjuice potion. 

Graves felt too weak to raise his head. He let it loll to the side, watching Grindelwald insolently with one eye, the other swollen shut from an earlier bout of pique from Grindelwald. Merlin, but the man was thin-skinned.

Although now he was ebullient with the joy of conquest. “That Auror of yours, Goldstein, I’ve had her executed. And Scamander, too, of course. They think it’s some magical beast causing the destruction in the city.” 

A faint feeling of alarm rose in Graves, then settled just as quickly. Any energy he’d had for outrage had been fast depleted in the last few days. He suspected Grindelwald had cast a magic-siphoning curse of some sort, nearly as unforgivable as a Killing Curse, but why should Grindelwald care for such rules?

 His eyes felt sunken in his head, his head too heavy for his neck, his neck as brittle and frail as the rest of his body.

“The fools have no idea how far away they were from the truth.” His eyes were appraising on Graves. "Not you, though. You knew."

“It’s an Obscurus,” Graves murmured, nearly incoherent.

Grindelwald smiled at him. “Yes. I saw your notes on your desk. You were close to the truth, weren’t you? I gathered from some of your scribbles you were even considering using young Credence as a trap.” 

“I couldn’t,” Graves admitted because it didn’t matter now. “I couldn’t use him.”

“Such foolish emotionality,” Grindelwald said. “Is that what a bond does? I must say, it hardly seems worth it. I thought the whole point was to draw upon the strength of a nameline, but all it seems to have done to you is weaken your mind to a pulp, and now here you are, weak and completely at the mercy of an unbounded wizarding lord.”

Graves snorted. Lord. He’d never understand the British wizarding obsession with titles. What nonsense.

“But I won’t need you for much longer.” Grindelwald knelt to look Graves more firmly in the eye. There was a feverish light reflected out of Graves’ own gaze. He looked like a copy that had been set to too high a resolution. He couldn’t believe no one at MACUSA had noticed the difference, or his father or Credence, he thought with a certain detached sadness.

But Credence was a newly trained wizard, with no frame of reference for Polyjuice potion or any other magical deceptions. If he was ignorant of dark magic, it was because Graves had failed to train or educate him. If he was vulnerable to Grindelwald’s schemes, it was because Graves had left him so.

“I don’t want to spoil the surprise too much, but I’ll say that when you stumbled upon an Obscurus as a possible explanation for the attacks on the city, you failed to dream a little bigger.”

Graves tried to raise an eyebrow in inquiry, although he wasn’t quite successful. He probably just looked drunk. Grindelwald seemed happy to fill in the blank. 

“I don’t want one Obscurus. I want an army of them.”

He gazed at Graves jubilantly. Graves gazed back, nonplussed, bemused at his never-ending bad fortune, to be not only held hostage by this maniac but also to be a captive audience for his ramblings.

He’d pray for the sweet release of death, if he wasn’t so desperate to escape and get to Credence.

Grindelwald continued, seemingly unable to help himself. “Those episodes of destruction were only a fraction of what an Obscurial is capable of. And now, it looks as though I’ll have my own Oscurus factory.”

“What are you talking about, you babbling idiot?” Graves’ voice was slurred, but he was beyond fear or awe of the self-important wizard before him.

Grindelwald whacked him with the back of his hand. Graves felt blood welling in his mouth but was otherwise unimpressed. The man was nothing without magic. Couldn’t even throw a punch.

He spat the blood out messily. It dripped into the unwashed collar of his shirt. What did it matter, he was filthy anyway.

“I see you don’t have the ingenuity and power of individual thinking of a flobberworm, much less a wizard.” Grindelwald stood up again, his lip curled. “ _Americans_ ,” he bit out, disgusted.

He pulled a flask from within his coat and took a swig, wincing at what was no doubt the bitterly unpleasant taste of Polyjuice potion. Just keeping it fresh, Gaves supposed.“I’ll keep it simple: once my source for Obscurials is secure, I won’t have need of you anymore. And once Credence brings me the original Obscurus, I won’t need him anymore.”

When Graves went still at that, Grindelwald smirked. “I see I have your attention now.” He kicked carelessly at Graves’ side, seeming pleased at Graves’ grunt. “Imagine the betrayal he will feel when he dies at the hands of his bondmate. I wonder if it will turn itself into blood magic. Would it matter if I’m not really his bondmate, or is it just his betrayal that powers it? I guess we’ll find out!”

He spun around and Disapparated, leaving Graves in a silent panic.

Grindelwald was a fool, but one point he’d made was sound—what was the point of a nameline if he wouldn’t come through when Graves damn well needed it? 

He focused inward, probing for it, bringing up his last scraps of energy to try and make a final show of force. 

He needed it _now_ , the nameline, the bond power, if he never got to used it again. He would give up the extra strength it had awarded him, he would give up his damned career, his magic in its entirety, he bargained silently, to whatever sentient force within him that connected to Credence.

“If you care so fucking much about the Graves name,” he growled to nobody in the empty basement room, no doubt charmed and cursed to keep him silent and invisible to the household above for eternity if need be, but hoping the nameline itself could break through nonetheless. “Help me. Help me _now_.” 

If it was going to come through for him, it needed to happen now, or he’d renounce his damned nameline himself and never look back.

 

* * *

 

In the end, Credence thought it was almost poetic that it should all fall apart with a blasted wand.

He’d gone searching for an errant needle. All three of them had, he and Chastity and Modesty, when they’d realized after a break from hours of sewing that they’d lost a sewing needle. They had all immediately fanned out, scouring the church for it.

Ma would be furious if she thought they were wasting supplies.

He got to Modesty’s room and fell to his knees. He considered attempting to use his magic again to locate the silly thing, like he’d been successful earlier, but he was afraid to push his luck. Besides, this was easy enough. He didn’t need magic to find a needle.

There was a wand under the bed.

He froze in surprise. He picked up, examining it, still halfway under the bed. 

It was real, he could tell instantly. His magic calling for it, although it did not seem ready to burst through like a terrible outlet as it did to his own wand.

Why was there a wand under Modesty's bed, he wondered dumbly.

Chastity came into the room and let out a soft frightened sound. “What are you doing in here?” she asked. Her voice was tremulous. 

Credence got out from under the bed, still holding the wand. He looked at her. “Is this yours?” Where in God’s name had she managed to find a real wand?

“It’s just a toy, give it back!”

“Where did you get this?”

“Give it back!” 

The penny dropped. “Chastity, did you take this from the study at the Graves estate?” He was recognizing it now. It was the spare wand Silas had used to train him in the beginning before his own wand had been given to him. A handful of spares were always knocking around the estate, Silas had told him, not necessarily registered in the strictest sense within the laws of MACUSA but you never knew when you needed an extra, my boy, this way we’re never without a wand nearby. 

“I didn’t—I didn’t!” Chastity claimed unsteadily.

How long had she been playing with, idly? Credence wondered if she’d performed any magic. What kind of danger had he put her in, but carelessly allowing her access to a wand she had no idea how to handle?

Modesty appeared in the doorway, hurrying into the room. She went still as she caught sight of the wand, and looked aghast.

“Chastity, why is that out?” Modesty asked, hushed and urgent. So they’d both known about it. It must have been their secret, he realized. She looked at Credence, eyes pleading. “Put it away, please, before Ma sees.”

“Before Ma sees what?” Ma asked evenly from the doorway.

Credence and his sisters spun around as one to see Ma, arms crossed, watching them all with a grim sort of satisfaction. She walked over and snatched the wand from Credence, striking faster than snake, far too fast for Credence to dodge.

She studied the wand. Looking thoughtful, she pointed it at Chastity. She flinched.

“Is this yours?” Ma asked her. Her voice was even and emotionless, and very, very dangerous. 

Chastity cowered back, eyes averted. Modesty opened her mouth, and Credence knew what she was about to do. He stepped in front of both of them, between the wand Ma held and his sisters.

“No, it’s mine,” he said confidently. Modesty shot him a shocked look but he just shook his head minutely at her. _Don’t interefere_. “It’s mine.”

Ma nodded, gratified. “Go downstairs.” That was ominous. Any time Credence had been punished in the basement, it had been exponentially more brutal than anything that had occurred upstairs. “I’ll get my psalms. You need to pray for forgiveness, before Satan himself steals your soul.”

She went to get her book, humming in anticipation. Credence headed toward the stairs, knowing Ma would make him wait for a few minutes, drawing the tension out unbearably.

Modesty followed along. “Why are you doing this?” she whispered fraughtly.

He shushed her. Ma was not far away, she could easily hear.

But Modesty pushed on. “I lied to you,” she reminded him, like she was waiting for him to remember that he hated her. As though he could possibly hate his own little sister. “I spied on you for Ma.”

“None of that matters now.” 

“Why are you helping me?”

 He looked her square in the face. “Because you’re my sister,” he said simply. 

Ma was coming down the stairs now. Credence had his belt off, so he turned to hand it to her. She yanked it from his hands, slicing the skin. He flinched, but refused to skitter away. If she hurt him, he would take it without complaint. She was not worth his fear any longer. He was stronger than that.

All of a sudden, Modesty pushed in between the two of them.

“It was mine!” she exclaimed in a frenzy. “It was mine!” 

Ma spun around and smacked her hand hard across Modesty’s face, the crack of skin to skin crackling through the still church air. Modesty’s head snapped to the side. She let out a small, shocked gasp. Credence didn’t think Ma had ever hit her before.

“You leave her alone!” Chastity shrieked, throwing herself at Ma, but Modesty grabbed her, pulling her back.

“You’re sinful little demons, every last one of you, after all,” Ma bit out, “how _dare_ you speak against me?”

“Ma,” Credence said, trying to calm the sudden chaos, worried for Chastity and Modesty if it continued to build.

“I am not your Ma!” Ma yelled at him, seemingly incensed at the conceit of interrupting. Credence and his sisters went silent. “Your mother was a wicked, unnatural woman, and I thank God every day that she is gone from this earth!”

It was the most, and really the only thing, that Ma had ever spoken about Credence’s beginnings, or any of the girls, either. It startled him, that Ma had known his real mother, known her enough to hate her. Who had she been, for Ma to revile her so forcefully?

He found himself stepping closer. “Who was my real family, Ma?”

“Give me your belt, Credence.”

“Who were they?” He saw Ma’s face go slack. He was so much taller than her, he realized. How long had he been this much bigger? Why had he allowed her to loom over his life for so long, when she was this small?

“Stay back!” Ma said. She looked frightened. She brandished the whip like a lion tamer. “Behind me, Satan!” 

Before Credence could react, the belt was ripped from Ma’s hands, as though by an invisible force. 

Credence went rigid. Had he done that? Had his magic done that?

Ma’s eyes were wide. “What is this?” Her voice was shaking. “What is this devilry?” Keeping her eyes on Credence, she bent to retrieve the belt.

It slithered away like a live snake, and she shrieked, jumping back.

“Stop this!” Ma demanded, begged. Credence opened his mouth to—to do _what_ , he wasn’t sure, perhaps apologize or explain, but he realized she wasn’t talking to him.

He turned and saw Modesty staring defiantly back at her. At her elbow, Chastity hovered, looking just as rebellious.

“You devils,” Ma said, said to his _sisters_ , who were young and undeserving of all of this, who had done nothing but obey her, all this time, and now Ma threw her ire at them in return, as though none of it mattered. She really was a viper. 

Credence felt a fire of righteous, cleansing rage build up within him.

A godlike force exploded into her before his very eyes, a bestial howl filling the room. Ma was thrown backward and fell, unmoving, to the ground. 

Credence tried to move closer to his sisters, wanting to protect him, but then he felt a dark mass rising up inside of him. The force had come from him, it was him.

But then he glanced up, just as his vision had gone almost completely black, and saw the same dark masses rising out of Chastity and Modesty too.

The walls of the church shook madly, on the verge of collapse. 

His vision was narrowing to a single dim pinprick of light, but just before, he caught Modesty’s eye. She was smiling. Their eyes met.

She shattered into a thousand points of mist, and beside her Chastity did the same, and he thought to himself that they had never looked more beautiful.

He was enraged for himself for the very first time, and the last conscious thought before he was lost to the darkness as well was how marvelous it felt to fight back.

 

* * *


	9. Chapter 9

* * *

 

When Graves had been very young, only six or seven, he’d liked to hide in corners and closets around the estate and practice his magic, against his father’s explicit orders and the MACUSA laws the forbade underage magic. There were wards around the estate to shield it from spies and MACUSA view anyway, so he'd felt emboldened.

He’d curl up somewhere, pull out his practice wand that he’d stolen from its hiding place in his father’s study and had been gifted to him by his father with the express caveat that he could only play with it under adult supervision, and stare at the wand tip. 

 _Do magic_ , he’d think at it. He wasn’t sure what else he needed to do to make it happen, but he knew if he didn’t practice now, he’d end up like his mother. His sweet, kind, affectionate mother, who nonetheless couldn’t do a single lick of magic and had to rely on his father and the house elves to get anything done. 

He was more powerful than that, he resolved grimly, at seven years old. He had to be.

Ultimately, the wand would spit and spark, and scare him into yelping and revealing his hiding place, the household already in a state of dishevelment as everyone dropped what they were doing to locate the missing Graves heir.

It was usually his father who’d find him, and attempt to give him a dressing down, although he’d never been very good at it. He’d been soft for Graves as a child.

Maybe he’d always been soft, and Graves had never been able to appreciate it. 

“You stubborn boy,” his father would scold, lifting him out of his hiding place with a strong hand wrapped around Graves’ skinny upper arm. He’d hold Graves aloft like that as he reproached him, like a mother cat holding her kitten by the scruff, ignoring Graves’ squirms. “You must learn to be patient with your magic, or you’ll get yourself in trouble one day.” He’d squint at Graves, who was usually staring back sullenly, unperturbed, and eventually crack a smile, like he was charmed by the sight. “If you’re done breaking the law, I think your mother has some cookies waiting for you.”

There had never been much punishment for him growing up. Graves supposed he had been rather cute. He’d been a runt until well into his teens. But even then, his parents had doted on him, until he started to worry it was spoiling his magic.

Since adulthood, he’d worked hard to shape his magic into something powerful, rigid, disciplined. He’d pushed himself into near exhaustion at Ilvermorny, he’d taken extra shifts as a young Auror, special seminars, becoming one of the strongest wizards of his era. He was proud of his magic, and what he’d accomplished with sheet force of will. He’d learned patience after all, and it had paid off. His father was right. 

Now, however, trapped in his basement, he felt much like a young boy, hasty and unskilled, trying to force his magic into line. It wasn’t working. 

“Come on, come on,” he muttered, focusing his power on the bindings at his wrists. _Do magic_ , he thought muzzily, drained, _do magic_.

Merlin’s tits, this wasn’t how he died. He tried to rally. He didn’t end here, weak and alone, his bondmate vulnerable and unprotected. This wasn’t how he went out. 

As he was busy berating himself, a prodigious headache descended upon him so suddenly and acutely that at first, he was sure his head was about to explode. He was strangely calm about the prospect; he was too weak to work up too much of a head of steam about it.

He heard an inhuman howl resonate. It was so loud he thought it was coming from the room, but then he registered it was in his head, alongside the headache. 

It was Credence, he recognized with perfect clarity. Credence was in trouble. 

“Now!” he yelled out loud, hysterically, to the room at large. “Right _now_ , damn you all to hell, I am a Graves and I demand that you _do magic right now_!” 

He expected a wave of latent, primal power to erupt forth and set him free. He was disappointed. Instead there was a stretch of pregnant silence. 

Ultimately it was not his magic that came forth, but the nameline’s. The floors began to rumble with it. A crack appeared in the wall and continued across the ceiling. Graves wondered, dazed, if he was about to bring the whole estate down on his head. 

Then the house went still and he heard the creak of the magicked locks of his bindings slowly, inelegantly, painstakingly slither loose.

Without their support, he fell forward onto the ground, panting heavily, his numb arms and legs aching as all the blood began recirculating painfully.

“Goblins’ balls,” he gritted out, pained.

He began dragging himself across the ground to the door, cursing his weakness, but he made it eventually. He braced on the door and pulled himself to his feet with another yell, and recognized the magical force field that was shielding this section of the basement. 

He didn’t have a wand. He groaned at the prospect of begging the nameline to help him again, but he put his hands to the door, feeling the shield pushing back. 

It felt like being rung loose like a wet rag. He stayed on his feet through sheer force of will, but he wobbled. Distantly he heard a yell, and knew it was him screaming as the nameline pushed through him like a conduit. It was too much power. It was wielding a bolt of lightning to ignite a match.

The shield shuddered and ripped apart. Almost feeble, in the end. Grindelwald had been too confident in his own magic, it seemed. He hadn't thought to double his protections, and now Graves was free.

He staggered through the door and to the stairs, the damn three sets of stairs he needed to climb to get to the first floor.

The roar in his head that had sounded like Credence’s soul being ripped to threads had quieted to an urgent, painful pull. He needed to get to him. He needed to get to him _now_. 

He would start looking for him at the church, but if he tried to Apparate without a wand he knew he’d splinch himself to hell or keel over from the effort of wielding the nameline magic to get him there. He needed a wand.

He headed to the study where his father kept a stash of illegal unregistered wands he thought Graves didn’t know about and that Graves pretended not to see whenever he ducked in to borrow a pen.

As he lurched to the first floor, breathing like a winded bear, there was as shriek as a house elf jumped at the sight of him.

“Master Percival!” the house elf, it sounded like Grisela, but Graves’ vision was blurry, he couldn’t be sure. “What has happened to Master Percival?!”

He ignored her, pushing on. He heard gasps from other house elves as he made his tortured way down the hall. He must look like absolute hell. Grindelwald had taken pleasure in knocking him around, and he felt near to starving. 

But he couldn’t worry about that now. He limped to the end of the endless hallway, why was the estate so _large_ , who had _authorized_ this, and shoved the study door open. 

Inside, his father was slumped over his desk. At the sound of the door, he leaped to his feet. He stared in disbelief at Graves, who was continuing with effort to the desk. 

His father rushed to his side. “Percival!” He hesitated to touch him. “My boy, _Merlin_ , what has happened? Is that really you?” He nearly choked on the words.

Graves barely acknowledged him, rifling through the drawers, and of course now that he needed one of them his father had actually learned how to hide them effectively.

“Percival, who did this to you?” his father asked softly. He touched Graves’ shoulder, which had probably gone boney over the last few weeks from lack of food. “Merlin’s _beard_ , son, you look—”

“I need a wand,” Graves interrupted gruffly. He met his father’s eye. Silas looked like he’d seen a ghost, and Graves would need to deal with whatever was behind that soon enough, but not now. He snapped his fingers. “ _Wand_ , father, I need a wand.” 

His father shook himself. “Of course, my boy.” He went of the cabinet at the far end of the room and took out a pile of them. “Do you prefer unicorn tail or hippogriff hair?” 

Graves had never cared less about anything in his life. “Just give me one!” he exploded, and in his haste, Silas threw one across the room.

Catching it against his chest, Graves took a breath, steeling himself. “Alert MACUSA, Gindelwald is here. He’s in the city,” he said wearily.

“Grindelwald?” Silas repeated, dumbfounded. “Where are you going now?”

“To Credence,” Graves said. It hurt to speak, and his entire body was sore. But the ache in his head was worse, calling for him. “I’m going to my bondmate.” In the next moment, before Silas could respond, Graves Disapparated.

When he arrived in the church, he was winded, and it took him a second to distinguish what he was seeing.

The church was a shambles. It looked like the buildings that had been attacked by an Obscurus. An Obscurial had been here, he realized in a panic. It was happening. Grindelwald was getting his way.

He looked down and saw a body. It was Mary Lou Barebone, he noted dispassionately. The Obscurial must have killed her. He stepped over her to look further into the church, but it was empty. 

The earth rumbled beneath his feet. He looked up. The howl from his head sounded again, but it was all around him now. He must be close. 

He closed his eyes and gathered up the last of his dwindling energy.

 _Take me to him_ , he told the bond, hoping he wasn't about to die of a splinching before he could find Credence, and Disapparated out of sight.

 

* * * 

 

When Credence regained his senses, his brain was scrambled.                                                   

He didn’t know where he was. His sisters were gone. He had no idea where they had gone, or if they were alright, or what kind of mayhem they might be causing in their dark forms.

He wasn’t quite sure what type of mayhem _he’d_ caused.

As he lay there, vision fuzzy, trying to remember what he’d done, the door to whatever building he had found himself within creaked opened. He twisted to look and in his disorientation, he felt a burst of relief. Percival was here. He would help him.

His bondmate knelt beside him, shaking him. Credence wished he would stop. He tried to pull away, but Percival wouldn’t let him.

“The Obscurial—it was here? Where did she go?” he was asking.

He didn’t _know_ , he didn’t know where his sisters were, that was the problem. “Help me, help me, please help me,” he pleaded with Percival, grasping at his jacket.

“Where is she?” Percival continued to insist, shaking him again, he wished he would stop shaking him so.

Credence glanced around and saw he was at the bottom of a stairwell. Where was he? It was familiar, but how did he know it? 

It connected. “Ma adopted Modesty out of here. From a family of twelve. She still misses her brothers and sisters. She still talks about them.” Had he come here to find her? Had his magic brought him here? He couldn’t be sure. Everything felt shaky and off-kilter.

Percival grabbed his sleeve and pulled him to his feet, dragging him up the stairs. “Where is she?”

Credence stumbled after him, unable to understand why Percival was being so rough.

“Please, help me,” he begged again, and Percival whirled on him, face twisted in wrath. He hit Credence sharply in the face with a closed fist. It hurt, but mostly it startled him. Credence flinched away, silenced.

He stared in shock. This wasn’t Percival.

“You’re a Squib, Credence. I could smell it off you the minute I met you. And I’m done with you now.” He turned away. 

This was Not-Graves. 

As Credence stood in sudden recognition, coming to himself, Not-Graves continued up the stairs and went off own a hallway. “Modesty? Are you here?”

Above Credence’s head, a crack opened up in the ceiling, trickling through the plaster almost delicately, like gossamer. Dust rained down, and the walls began to shake.

He stepped onto the landing on the second floor and watched in detached satisfaction as the wall collapsed. Then another, and another, until Not-Graves was revealed, huddled in a corner of the ruined apartment, thankfully empty of anyone else.

Not-Graves was watching him from the ground, awed. “You’re beautiful,” he said. He cleared his throat, an uneasiness entering his face. “But I think I owe you an apology.”

“Shut up,” Credence said, and a piece of ceiling collapsed on his silent command and smacked Not-Graves on the head, whose head jerked back and he grappled for his wand, but found his pocket empty.

Credence could see it where it had fallen to the ground behind him. He advanced on Not-Graves. The power inside him ballooned up. It sent out a dark cloud, like in the church with Ma, but bigger this time. Grander. Unstoppably wicked. 

“What have you done with him?” Credence demanded, his voice magnified and booming in the cloud of dark magic. “Where is he?” 

“Where is who, sweet boy?” Not-Graves smiled ingratiatingly, even as he felt for his wand blindly on the ground. 

"Where is Percival?"

Not-Graves' smile fell away. "So you knew all along, then. You saw me with your mother."

So that answered the question of who had taken over Percival's identity, that pompous blond man who seemed intent on partnering with Ma to destroy children's lives.

Credence tilted his head to the side, birdlike, studying Not-Graves. "Not all along," he admitted. "I know it now, though." He felt perfectly unafraid for the first time in his life.

Where before the magic felt unstable, and its vastness threatening, now as Credence looked down on Not-Graves, he suddenly forgot why he had been afraid of it at all.

“You can control it, Credence,” Not-Graves said, almost pleading.

Credence took hold of the necklace around his neck and held it up so Not-Graves could see. He wrapped a fist around the pendant and squeezed, hearing the thin metal snap under his fingers, just to feel the Summoning magic within it wither away at his touch. Not-Graves watched, openly apprehensive. 

Credence smiled at him. “I don’t think I want to.”

Before the screaming power overtook him again, he met Not-Graves’ eye and saw him cower in fear, and thought how wonderful it felt to be feared.

He opened his mouth wide. He exploded into a vast darkness and shot forward.

 

* * * 

 

Graves arrived in a subway tunnel. He was at the bottom of the stairs. A great noisy duel of some kind was taking place near the platform. He hurried toward it, staying just behind the wall to observe. 

At first he could only stare in awe at the bangs and cracks of defensive hexes and spells flying through the air, aimed at a massive smokey form swirling angrily around against the ceiling, bringing down poles and walls, absorbing curses, screeching. Nothing seemed to wound it.

It was the Obscurial, that much was obvious, but where was Credence? Why had the bond brought him here?

Also on the platform, Graves saw Tina. She wasn’t firing at the Obscurial. Beside her was the messy-haired British idiot. He had his wand out but was only defending.

Crouched low on the tracks, Graves saw Grindelwald, still in his Polyjuiced form, eyes on the Obscurial, wand out. Graves’ wand, casting spell after spell.

Graves wanted nothing more than to hex Grindelwald until nothing but a scorch mark on the ground remained.

But that wasn’t the priority at the moment. He scanned the subway from his vantage point, trying to see if Credence was hiding somewhere in the melee. He had to be. The bond inside him was throbbing, as though its counterpart was close, so _close_ , but where?

From the platform, Tina’s British companion cried out, “Credence! Credence, I can help you.” He minced closer toward the Obscurial, as though he was talking to it, as though he was talking to Credence _inside_ the Obscurial. 

The Obscurial dove at him, sending Tina’s companion crashing to the side before he Disapparated, just before the Obscurial could overtake him.

Then Grindelwald chimed in, and if the Obscurial hated Newt, it seemed to _despise_ Grindelwald, or Grindelwald in Graves’ form.

“To survive so long, with this inside you is a miracle,” Grindelwald crooned. The Obscurial lunged for him, and Grindelwald Disapparated to the the other side of the tracks, smoothly resuming his entreaty. “You are a miracle. Come with me—think of what we could achieve together.”

It screamed, taking another swing, and Grindelwald retreated back up the platform.

Tina’s companion tried again, his voice cracking in earnestness. “I’ve met someone just like you, Credence. A girl—a young girl who’d been imprisoned, she had been locked away and she’d been punished for her magic.”

The Obscurial went still. As Tina’s companion spoke, the Obscurus grew slowly less opaque, revealing a dimly lit figure inside its swirling darkness, huddled on the train tracks, frightened and alone. 

“I can help you,” Tina’s companion insisted. But from the corner, Grindelwald cast a defensive charge, interrupting as though he hated to lose attention, and the Obscurus rose up once more with a roar. 

Graves, clearly the slowest idiot in the room, finally caught on. “Credence,” he muttered to himself. Holy Merlin. “Credence!” he yelled desperately.

He jumped out onto the platform, limping as quickly as he could toward the tracks.

It jerked abruptly, facing him. It was nothing but a swirling black mass. He couldn’t see anything of his bondmate within it. But the bond magic in him called to it, and the Obscurial hesitated as if hearing the call. 

“Oh, my love,” Graves breathed out. He fell to his knees, exhausted and overcome. How had he not seen this? How had he failed to see how Credence must have been suffering? In a flash, it all came together—his discomfort with magic, his disinclination to even hold his wand, the years of torment at his mother's hands. And all this time Graves had been blind to it. 

“Stay away from him!” Tina cried. She came close to yank at his arm but Graves held her away with a raised palm. 

The Obscurial crept closer until it was right before Graves’ face, the darkness swirling. He could feel the heat of the power on his skin.

“I should have seen how much you were suffering,” Graves said quietly. “I’m sorry. I’m so sorry, Credence.”

Slowly, the Obscurus began to melt away, until Credence was clear through the smoke, staring wide-eyed at Graves. 

“Credence,” Graves murmured. He reached out to touch him and Credence jerked back, afraid. “It’s alright. You’re alright.”

Credence reacted as though through a fog, squinting at Graves in surprise.

“Is it really you this time?” he whispered. His voice was faded and distorted by the Obscurus, but still there, still him. 

Graves nodded frantically. His cheeks were wet. “Yes, my love, yes, it’s me.” He stretched out his hand through the darkness, reaching to connect with Credence, the bond singing in his chest, the nameline power swallowing up his fatigue, strength singing to the fore as he drew closer to his bondmate. 

There was a commotion behind him. Tina and her friend were yelling something, and Grindelwald was yowling, but Graves didn’t pay any attention until he heard Picquery’s distinctive voice ring out. “Destroy it!”

Graves turned to see Aurors pouring down the steps of the subway and out into the tunnel en masse. Their wands were raised aggressively.

“No!” Graves yelled out hoarsely. He threw his body in front of Credence but was caught by an Expelliarmus that knocked him to the ground. 

He rolled to see the Obscurus swallowing up Credence, until he was just the Obscurial again, shooting to the ceiling of the tunnel to escape the barrage of spells.

“No,” he croaked out again. “No.”

The Aurors were pelting Credence’s Obscurus with strong, offensive magic. The entire tunnel began to shake as the Obscurus swelled, shrieking.

Tina and her friend were watching, screaming at the Aurors to stop.

They were going to kill him.

Graves dragged himself to his feet and threw his wand up, casting a spell with no words, filled with only desperation, love, despair, all of it braided together and flowing forth from his wand.

It connected with Obscurial, just as a fresh wave of curses rained down from the Aurors, and Graves wasn’t sure which hit first. Until he saw the Obscurus begin to implode. 

A white ball of light separated from the black mass, and the black mass exploded in a silent sonic boom that knocked everyone standing in th tunnel off their feet. Graves fell backward, smacking his head on a rail. 

When he looked up, eyes swimming, he saw only scraps of black matter floating through the air in the ringing silence.

Behind him, Grindelwald was yelling something unintelligible, babbling about the Statute of Secrecy and the rights of wizards to live freely and Graves wished someone would hex him into silence, for once. As though hearing his deadened prayer, someone yelled out, “Revelio!” and presumably revealed Grindelwald’s true identity.

Graves barely heard any of it. He rose to his knees, staring up at the broken ceiling, at the wisps of blackness still hovering in the air, at the hole in the glass ceiling of the tunnel.

Credence. Credence was gone.

“Do you think you can hold me?” Grindelwald asked, in that repellant voice of his.

Picquery replied, “We’ll do our best, Mr. Grindelwald.” Then she seemed to catch sight of Graves. “Who is that? Merlin, is that Graves? The _real_ Graves? Percival, what has happened to you?” 

There was a commotion as Aurors and Tina and her friend and Picquery converged on Graves where he kneeled on the filthy tunnel floor, but he didn’t hear or see any of them. 

He was staring at the hole in the ceiling, his bond gone from ringing inside him with strength, to a swift, horrible silence.

 

* * * 


	10. Chapter 10

* * *

 

Credence wasn’t sure how long he’d been inside the suitcase.

He knew he was in a suitcase because a few weeks before, the British man from the tunnel, Newt, had poked his head in, whispered, “Sorry to keep you in my suitcase, but I can’t let you out until we’re back in Europe,” and popped his head back out again.

There was a reason living inside a suitcase was unusual, but he couldn’t quite fathom exactly why. His head was too fuzzy most of the time to think too critically about anything.

Time passed differently inside the suitcase, though, he thought, or maybe it was just him. He had no idea what the weather was like outside, and there was no real sunlight inside, so he didn’t have much to go by aside from the meals Newt brought down for him at regular intervals.

He slept a lot. He walked around the cavernous inside of the suitcase in a daze. He’d enter an enclosure only to forget why he had decided to walk inside moments later, and he would stand there, puzzled, until one of the animals came over to nuzzle him curiously, or Newt, if he was down there, would guide him back to his quarters in the corner of the suitcase.

He could never quite reliably remember what he was doing here, or why he wasn’t with _Percival_ , and why Percival wasn’t with him, _here_.

Also sometimes he had a hard time remembering exactly who Percival was, only that he knew he should be here with Credence. He belonged here. He was nice, and Credence missed him, a sore spot inside him like an aching tooth he couldn’t stop worrying.

Credence remembered being in a subway tunnel like it was a dream within a dream. The clearest part he remembered was the distasteful feeling of his body piecing itself back together again, and by then, Newt had found him. 

The dark power was gone out of him, now. He didn’t know where it had gone, and when he asked Newt, Newt just shrugged uncomfortably. Newt didn’t talk much, at least not to Credence. He babbled happily to his menagerie of animals within the suitcase, but something about making eye contact with another human seemed to stymie him, but it wasn’t so bad. Credence found it difficult to form words for a while in the beginning anyway.

So Credence spent his time with the animals in the suitcase, wandering from enclosure to enclosure. He liked the nest of Occamies the best, liked their beautiful iridescent wings. An Occamy didn’t like to be touched, apparently, and was aggressive to strangers, but they were so unthreatened by Credence as to ignore him entirely, which seemed to take Newt by surprise. 

He sat by their nest and admired their feathered coats and the tough, silver shells of their eggs. He didn’t touch them, but sometimes he fell asleep and woke up with an Occamy curled around his neck like a stole. 

Deep inside the suitcase, there lived a creature Newt told him sternly to avoid, and since Newt wasn’t stern about anything, Credence listened. It was something dark and dangerous, and Newt gave him a funny look when Credence volunteered, “Maybe it’s just misunderstood.” 

“I don’t think so,” Newt replied. “Just—just stay out of there, alright?”

Credence didn’t fee curious, too numb and dull to feel much of anything at all, so he stayed by the Occamies, and the other creatures seemed to accept him as nothing more unusual than another one of Newt’s orphan creatures.

Slowly, the things around him began to make more sense. By the time they did, they were in Europe. They’d been riding in an ocean liner, apparently, as Credence was riding in a suitcase, as all of humanity was also conceivably riding atop the earth. It had a certain poetry to it.

When they got off the boat, Newt went into a restroom and let Credence out of the suitcase.

He cast a spell over him that made Credence’s face feel fuzzy.

“Sorry about the glamour,” Newt said hurriedly, in his stilted voice. “You’re not exactly Wanted, but you’re not exactly a normal wizard anymore, you know? 

Credence didn’t know, but he nodded agreeably. Newt was strange, but he was trustworthy. Credence knew that much. He watched as Newt fumbled more inside his coat, and withdraw a second wand. 

“Here, it’s your wand,” Newt said, eyes averted. He held it out expectantly.

Credence looked at it but felt afraid to hold it. He wasn’t sure why. It was on the tip of his tongue, like a word he’d forgotten, but the harder he reached for it the more it slithered out of reach.

“I don’t want it.” Credence spoke softly, as he always did now. His throat was always sore. Newt insisted it would heal eventually, but Credence had his doubts. He stepped away from the wand. “I’m sorry.”

Newt looked at him and put the wand away again. “I know you’re confused right now,” he said patiently. His voice took on the low soothing quality it sometimes did when he spoke to his wild creatures. Credence found himself unwittingly lulled by it. “But nothing that happened to you was your fault. Do you understand?”

Credence didn’t quite understand, but he nodded anyway, wishing he did. It seemed terribly important that nothing that had happened was his fault, even if he couldn’t quite remember what any of it was.

“How are the headaches?” Newt asked.

Touching his head thoughtfully, Credence said, “Pretty bad. But it’s alright.” Newt took that confusing sentence for what it was. 

“It’s the bond. I’m sorry I don’t know any way to soothe it. But your memories, the damage the Obscurus did, there are methods to repair it. We just need to get somewhere safe first.”

Credence nodded yet again. It felt like the only thing to do, in a world he didn’t understand, to follow the lead of the only person he trusted (except for Percival, but Percival wasn’t here, and he should be here, although Credence couldn’t remember why).

Newt beckoned for him, and Credence followed him out of the restroom into the crowded gangway of the dock. An onslaught of accents floated into his ears. It sounded like music. 

“Come along,” Newt said, holding onto the cuff of Credence’s shirt like he was a wayward child. “There’s a portkey around here somewhere.”

 

* * * 

 

Graves’ head was throbbing again, but that was nothing new.

He was in the seventh or eighth or two-hundredth debriefing meeting of the day, he’d lost track, or possibly he’d never been keeping track. It didn’t matter anyway. All that was important was this had been his final one. He was free to go, now. Cleared of all suspicions of negligence or wrongdoing.

Picquery was the last to see him. She tried to make amends, in her forthright, unapologetic way. 

”I’m sorry,” she’d said. 

She sounded like she might mean it, but when she reached to touch his arm sympathetically, Graves shifted away.

“I’m _sorry_ , Auror Graves,” she said again. “We should have known that wasn’t you. It was our failing as a Congress, we should have been able to tell.” 

He stared at the table incredulously. As though he cared for their bumbling response to Grindelwald taking over his body. As if it mattered.

Picquery caught on. “Ah,” she aid quietly. And then, because she was Picquery and never really knew when to leave well enough alone, she went on. “I've already rehired Lusitania and your other Aurors that were mistakenly let go, and in return, I hope you won’t let this color your professional relationships with the Aurors who were in the tunnel. What happened there was under my orders. Your bondmate was responsible for the death of a No-Maj. He risked the exposure of our community. He broke one of our most sacred laws—”

Graves rose from his seat in a sharp motion, the chair clattering onto its side in submission. Violence felt at the tip of his fingers. It was prescient that he’d been disarmed at the beginning of every debriefing meeting so far, or he was certain he would have killed her. 

Picquery stepped back. “You forget yourself, Auror Graves.”

“I am not an Auror anymore, Serafina,” he said roughly. Speaking at all was difficult these days. “I resign, effective immediately.”

She frowned. She leaned forward slowly, as though not to startle him, like he was a deer, and not quietly dying inside. “Percival, you’re not thinking clearly,” she replied.

“If you don’t leave now, it will go badly for you. I have nothing to lose, after all.” He met her eyes, a deadened weight resting on his chest. “You made sure of that.”

She stared at him for while, as though to prove that her leaving was a choice, and finally backed away and out of the room. He left soon thereafter and collected his wand from the desk at the end of the hall. Auror Wildstorm gave him a bracing, compassionate smile, the kind everyone in MACUSA seemed duty-bound to throw his way since Grindelwald's capture. He didn’t acknowledge it, hurrying to the stairwell so he could Disapparate in one piece. 

He didn’t even bother heading to his office to clear out his things. 

At the estate, he wandered listlessly into the study, and he found his father staring just as listlessly at a roll of parchment. 

“I’m not an Auror anymore,” Graves said into the quiet. He collapsed into a chair near the desk. 

Silas looked at him, eyes heavy-lidded and weary. “I’m sorry to hear that, my son,” he said gruffly.

He had taken the loss of Credence especially hard and blamed himself for failing to see what was really happening when he’d apparently gone to see Credence at the church and Grindelwald and had managed to threaten him into subsiding.

Graves had stopped arguing with him on that front, feeling it was pointless. There was no one at fault for this but Graves. Credence had been his to protect, and he’d failed.

He’d never deserved a bondmate in the first place.

“I don’t know what to do anymore,” Graves admitted bleakly. He turned to his father. He felt like a child again, seeking some kind of comfort. “Does it get easier? Is it always like this?” He laughed humorlessly, rubbing his chest where it ached, possibly from the broken bond, possibly because his heart was shattered. “Merlin, how did you survive this?” 

“The loss of bondmate is never something you truly heal from,” Silas said. He sighed. “But I had years with your mother. It nearly destroyed me losing her, but we had wonderful memories. We had you.” He looked at Graves with such grief that Graves had to turn away, afraid he’d break down, and he hadn’t yet. He’d kept it all locked away, choosing numbness instead, fearing if he gave in he’d never be well again. “I’m just so sad for you, my son, and for Credence. He was so young. You both deserved more time together.”

Credence deserved more time, Graves corrected stubbornly. It didn’t matter what Graves deserved because he didn’t deserve anything. He would go back and sacrifice himself to Grindelwald himself if it meant bringing Credence back, and undoing the pain Graves had allowed to transpire on his watch. 

From the doorway, Prudentia knocked softly. “Begging your pardons, Master Silas, Master Percival,” she said, bobbing a curtsy. All of the house elves had been quiet of late, blaming themselves for failing to recognize Grindelwald had secreted Graves away in his own house. Graves could hear them wailing in the kitchen intermittently throughout the day. 

It seemed the estate would inevitably drown in its guilt and be washed away. 

“What is it, Pru?” Graves asked tiredly. 

“You have a visitor, Master Percival. A Miss Tina Goldstein, here to see you. I put her in the sitting room.” 

“I don’t want to see her,” he said.

Silas shook his head. “Shutting yourself away won’t make anything better. You’ll be hurting no matter what you’re doing, so you might as well acknowledge your friends.”

He wasn’t sure he’d consider Tina a friend. He thought of her and her friend, the illustrious Newt Scamander as it turned out, and remembered how they’d tried to protect Credence, yelling at the Aurors to stop their attack. But in the end, they’d been just as useless as Graves, and Graves couldn’t forgive her that, just as he could never forgive himself.

Still, he stood. His father was right, he could feel near-death with grief here, or he could do it in the sitting room. It didn’t really make a difference.

Tina was perched on the edge of an antique sofa when Graves walked in, her hands an anxious knot in her lap. She jumped to her feet at the sight of him. 

He waved her back down, sitting carelessly on a stool. He hadn’t seen her since the Aurors had dragged him away from the tunnel, easily subduing his struggles to remain in his weakened state. He’d seen Tina arguing with a few other Aurors, gesturing angrily at the hole in the ceiling, before he’d been taken to headquarters for medical care and debriefing. 

She looked apprehensively at him and slowly sat back down. “Hello, Auror Graves.” 

“I’m not an Auror anymore,” he shot back. “What do you want, Tina?” 

She took a deep, fortifying breath. “I came here to talk to you about something, and I’m not sure how you’ll react.”

He stared at her without reaction, until she stammered on.

“I came to tell you—well, to start with, I found Credence’s sisters,” Tina said. She looked quietly proud of herself, and Graves thought sourly it must be nice to be able to feel feelings that weren’t anger and sucking blankness. 

“Alright,” Graves grunted out.

“With the help of a few cooperative Aurors who agreed to keep it a secret, I managed to subdue them and withdraw the Obscuruses. It was extraordinarily difficult, I’ll need to spend time documenting the spell work, I still can’t quite believe—”

“Tina,” Graves cut her off, impatient, wanting this to be over. Tina always had a tendency to get carried away with the theoretical side of Auroring, but Graves couldn’t say he had the patience for it on a good day, let alone now. He didn’t want to hear about how Credence’s sisters had survived while Credence had been brutally murdered, no matter the groundbreaking magical work involved.

She looked down at her hands. “They’re weakened, and don’t remember much from the ordeal, but the youngest one should be fine. The older one is also of an age we thought impossible to contain an Obscurus, but it seems we were wrong about a lot of theories on Obscurials.”

She smiled in a commiserating sort of way at Graves, and when he only stared blankly, she swallowed. “Anyway, Modesty is having a particularly rough time, but we think she’ll pull through. They’re recuperating at a safe house in California. I thought you should know.”

“Why does it matter to me what happened to those two girls?”

“I thought you might like to know where they are.” Tina took a breath, as though steeling herself. “And that it might be good news to tell to Credence when you go to see him.” 

Tina went still, bracing, but Graves just stared at her.

“What are you talking about,” he said, voice dull. “Credence is...Credence is dead.” He forced himself to say the words. It didn’t make it less real, refusing to say it out loud. “I saw it with my own eyes.”

“You saw the Obscurus as it was destroyed. Not Credence.”

“He’s alive?” Graves gasped out. “Credence is alive?”

Tina smiled uncertainly. “You cast the spell that saved him, actually. Newt and I still aren’t sure how you managed it, it must be been the nameline magic, but it's not immediately clear what form it took, either that or the bond—” 

“Why wasn’t I told?” Graves gritted out. His heart was thundering in his chest. He gripped the side table for balance, abruptly unsteady even though he was seated. 

“We needed to be sure you weren’t still a danger,” Tina said defensively, “after the ordeal with Grindelwald, we weren’t sure if you were still under his power, if you would hurt Credence—”

“—hurt my _bondmate_ , are you _insane_ —”

“—and Newt needed to be sure that Credence was no longer a danger to our world. You couldn’t be reunited until we were sure.”

Tina fell silent. Graves looked at her, stunned. He couldn’t move. 

She reached out to touch his sleeve, and he recoiled on instinct, wondering why so many people he suddenly despised kept trying to touch him today.

“My god, Tina. My god.” He stood up, staggering back, needing to be away from her, feeling out of control in a dangerous way that he hadn’t even felt earlier when Picquery had spoken so casually about Credence’s death. A death that _wasn’t_ , as it turned out, Credence was _alive_ , he was alive and Graves had spent weeks away from him— 

“That wasn’t your decision to make,” he bit out.

“Auror Graves, I’m sorry,” she began, but Graves interrupted.

“Where?” he demanded. “Where is he?” 

“He’s in Scotland, with Newt and the rest of his creatures.” 

Graves stared at Tina in astonishment. Credence was not a creature. He wasn’t dangerous. But he didn’t waste time on any of that. 

“Where in Scotland?” he insisted, “I need coordinates, give me a destination.” 

“You’re going now?” she said in surprise. 

“Merlin, Tina, spit it out!” he barked.

Tina jumped, hands held out in self-defense. “Okay, I’m sorry! McDrummond Castle, near Loch Shaunaugssie.”

Graves yanked open a drawer of the side table, rustling through it, yanking open another, and finally pulled out his father’s old hunting map. He’d need to know exactly where he was going if he was going to Apparate transcontinentally, which he was, because if he had to wait even the extra few hours to set up a portkey or floo, he’d probably commit murder.

He slapped it on the table, bit out, “Scotland,” and turned it to Tina as it assumed the shape of the designated country. “Where.”

Tina eyed him warily but focused on the map. Her finger was shaking as she trailed it along the parchment, probably at the way Graves was hovering over her shoulder, radiating impatience.

“There,” she said, pointing out a spot marked by a red dot. “But Mr. Graves, are you sure you can manage—you’re still very weak, that isn’t—”

Graves went to the center of the room, imagined the spot on the map, and Disapparated.

Apparating across great distances was famously uncomfortable. Where normal Apparition was like having your body shoved through tubing, long-distance Apparation was more like being compressed to death under the foot of a giant.

Perhaps Tina had been right, Graves reasoned as he felt his ears pop loud enough to rattle his brain. He was still recovering from his captivity, and he wasn’t as strong he’d been last time he’d Apparated across the country, which was the furthest he’d ever attempted. Now he was crossing the ocean, and the blood vessels in his eyes and ears were throbbing, and the only reason he wasn’t screaming was because the further he traveled, the more he felt the bond begin to wake up.

It had been laying so still and frozen within him that he’d assumed it was dead, just as he’d assumed Credence was dead. But now it seemed it had just been sleeping. 

As he apparently drew closer to Credence, it started to vibrate in anticipation. 

He came crashing to the ground with such force he couldn’t stay on his feet. He took a moment to gasp for breath and patted his limbs. All attached. Miraculously, no splinching. That could probably be one for the record books, if he could bring himself to care about anything but the sight of the great, tumbledown castle sitting before him. 

He felt frozen in expectation. What if Tina was wrong, what if Credence had not survived, what if there was a reason he was there and hadn’t contacted Graves, what if, what if—

He was at the front steps before he really realized it, and still a step behind as he pounded on the door. His ragged heart was in his throat. He waited in endless silence. 

The door swung open, and Graves maybe expected a house elf or some No-Maj village person who had been serving the castle for eons, but instead, it was Credence.

“Hello,” Credence said. He sounded delicately puzzled. He tilted his head, curious. He looked like he was seeing Graves for the very first time.

But Graves was not seeing him for the first time, and what he was seeing was Credence, alive and healthy and tall and with a pink glow to his skin and his hair grown out so it needed to be swept back from his forehead in silky waves, and he was here. He was really here, looking at Graves in growing apprehension as Graves felt himself begin to tremble.

He was overcome. The bond was singing. 

He moved forward jerkily and pulled Credence against him, one hand on the back of his neck, the other on the small of his back, holding him as tightly as he could. He pressed his face into Credence’s neck and inhaled gustily, unable to believe it, unwilling to loosen his grip, which was doubtless far too strong.

In his arms, Credence had gone stiff. Graves release his grip just enough to pull back and look at his face, into his beautiful dark eyes, and Graves’ cheeks were wet, he realized. 

Credence had gone wide-eyed as he stared at Graves. Slowly, like something amazing was happening before him and he was a beat behind putting the pieces together, he cupped Graves’ face. Graves couldn’t help but turn into the contact, nuzzling his palm.

Credence’s entire body shook with a jolt.

“Percival,” he whispered. Then, strangled, “Percival!” 

He threw his arms around Graves’ neck, and Graves started laughing, wildly, choked mostly with tears. He picked Credence up by his waist and spun him around in abandon, coming slowly to a stop, cradling Credence’s precious, precious face in his palms so gently, watching Credence hold tightly to his forearms, swallowing convulsively, tears coursing own his face.

“Percival,” Credence said again, in wonder.

And Percival captured his mouth with a soft, worshipful kiss.

 

* * * 

 

It was like breaching a still pond after being submerged for God knew how long. Credence gasped, as though he’d been holding his breath the whole time, too. 

Percival was before him, the real, actual human man, and he was _kissing_ him, and he was holding him tightly, and he was _here_ —it was too much. He needed to breathe.

He wrenched his face away, gasping for breath.

“I’m sorry, I just—couldn’t quite help myself,” Graves said ruefully, sounding breathless. He pressed his forehead to Credence’s as Credence caught his breath, everything spinning.

“I remember you,” Credence managed to gasp out. “I remember _everything_.”

That realization was dizzying.

Newt had spent nearly a month casting painstaking, careful spells on Credence’s memory, trying to mend what the Obscurus has attempted to tear away. He’d cast similarly careful spells on Credence’s body, and his soul, where Newt had finally proclaimed there might always be a bit of a darkness. 

But with one touch, one kiss—Credence felt whole again.

And with the wholeness came the clarity of remembrance, and he jerked in sudden panic.

“Modesty and Chastity! Where are—we need to find them.” He twisted in Percival’s hold, but Percival held him still, waiting. 

“They’re alright,” he said, repeating it over and over until Credence settled. “They’re in California recovering. They’re alright.”

“They—they were Obscurials, like me.”

Percival’s arched his elegant eyebrows. “Yes, it seems your whole family is quite unique.” 

Credence glanced down, flustered at the reference to what he was, or what he had been; what he and his sisters had _become_. 

“I can tell you everything, I can tell you all I know about what happened, but first,” Percival hugged Credence close again, like he hated any distance between them, “let’s go sit somewhere.” He exhaled gustily, and when he pulled back, Credence really got a good look at him, and saw his face was thin and haggard. A rough beard had begun to grow. Heavy bags hung under his eyes.

“You look terrible,” Credence said, without thinking, but Percival only laughed. The sound was shaky.

“Don’t expect a man to look dapper when he’s had,” he paused, swallowing, and gave Credence another compulsive embrace, “when he’s had the fright of his life.” He pressed a kiss to Credence’s cheek.

Credence, worried over how lean Percival had become, looped an arm around his waist as he led him inside. He had another flash of memory, of looking into Percival’s face in the tunnel, at his bruised face, the way he’d limped.

What had happened to him, Credence wondered desperately. All he knew was what little Newt had told him, about a man named Grindelwald, which certainly hadn’t meant anything to him when he been recovering, and barely meant anything to him now. 

He should have been with Percival, he scolded himself, not swanning around in Scotland. Even though a week ago he’d only had the most tenuous of grips on his own memory and mind.

He hugged Percival tighter, relishing the feel of him, even if he was too thin. 

“I’m not so feeble yet, Credence,” Percival protested mildly, but he didn’t pull away from the embrace. Instead, he hugged Credence tight to his side as they made their inside. 

The castle was tumbling down in most parts, and Credence suspected the majority of the structure was held up by bits of magic done piecemeal by Newt over the years. 

The sitting room was woebegone, containing only a chair and a musty couch, but Credence settled them both upon it, sitting nearly on Percival’s lap, holding his face between his hands so he could examine him more closely.

“Are you really alright, Percival?” he asked solemnly. 

Percival didn’t answer at first. Instead, he stared back at Credence, his eyes soft. He took one of Credence’s hands in his and kiss the palm, eyes fluttering shut. 

“I watched you die,” he said in a low voice. “I watched the Aurors blow you to smithereens.” 

Credence even remembered that part now, he realized. The sensation of being struck repeatedly, by stronger and stronger fists that burned and pinched and dug into his skin, then expanding like a balloon, and also of separating, the dark anger within him moving in one direction, the rest of him going in another. There hadn’t been pain during that part, but he’d been terrified, leaving Percival farther and farther below him on the ground, so it had almost been worse.

“I watched someone else wear your skin,” Credence said frankly in return. 

“It wasn’t quite my skin, it was only a Polyjuice,” Percival corrected. He gripped Credence above the knee, pulling his leg up firmly so he was nearly folded in his lap. He stared at his hand where it rested on Credence’s leg, his mouth working. “I’m so sorry for what he did to you. I’m so sorry I couldn’t help you.”

The guilt in Percival’s voice was so intense it made Credence a little frantic. With a low sound in his throat, he pushed closer, holding Percival tighter.

“No,” he murmured, “no, don’t be sorry.” 

There was a sound from the doorway into the hall and they both turned, as best they could when they were tangled up so tightly.

“Oh,” Newt said, a flush creeping across his face at what must have been an intimate sight. “So sorry to interrupt. Graves.” He nodded at Percival. Percival did not return the favor.

“I saw Tina earlier,” he said stiffly. “She told me about Credence. She told me you had both decided to keep that to yourselves for a while, though.”

Newt coughed and glanced up at the ceiling. He seemed reluctant to meet Percival’s eye. “Yes, well. We did what we thought was right.”

“Did you, now.”

Credence could feel the coldanger rising in Percival. He rubbed the back of his neck soothingly. He was putting together the pieces that Newt, and potentially Tina, had deliberately kept him apart from Percival. He didn’t know why they had done that, and frankly he was deeply frustrated that they had, but at the moment, he had Percival in his arms again, and he couldn’t waste the energy on any emotion but pure joy.

“Newt, Percival will be staying,” he began, but hesitated to say how long. Not that it mattered, he supposed. From the possessive way Percival had him cradled against his body, Credence doubted anything short of national military endeavor would not take Percival from him now. 

“Of course,” Newt agreed instantly. He coughed again. “You saw Tina, you say?” His voice was studiously casual.

“She did not pass on any specific regards,” Percival said snidely.

Newt began walking shuffling sideways out of the room. “Yes, well. I’ll just.” And he was gone, disappearing unstealthily back to his workshop in the back garden.

Percival watched him go stonily, glaring after him until Credence had to tug at his jaw to get him to look away.

“Newt is a good man,” he insisted. “He’s taken good care of me.”

“I should have been takaing care of you,” Percival said stubbornly. He pulled Credence tighter, burying his face in his neck. His hands were roaming all of Credence he could reach, rubbing up and down his back, the other chafing against his leg, like he was relearning the feel of Credence’s body. 

The touch was grounding. It reminded Credence of their first time together. 

They sat that way for a long time, touching languidly but with ownership, no words necessary while Credence felt his worldview adjust back to its old awareness, and Percival seemed to begin the journey to accepting that Credence was still alive, and well.

After a while, Credence pulled away, and after a brief resistance, Percival let him, adjusting until they could see one another’s faces again. 

“You know, I realize I forgot to tell you,” he said carefully. “I love you, you know.”

He watched Percival’s eyes widen, and his bottom lip begin to tremble again. He made an aggravated sound and freed his hands enough to press their heels into his eyes, clearing his throat aggressively. “Merlin’s eyes, I’m a watering pot.”

Credence hummed soothingly, kissing Percival’s forehead, his cheekbones, his nose, trying to calm his poor, overwrought bondmate, to limited success, as Percival took control, catching Credence’s mouth with his and kissing him deeply, tongue sweeping greedily into his mouth, stealing his breath. He kept making noises, little groans and sighs, and every time Credence pulled away to catch his breath, Percival swooped in again, kissing the sense out of him.

Percival finally broke the kiss, breathing just as hard as Credence. He pressed their cheeks together.

“Oh, my love,” he said roughly. He nuzzled into Credence’s neck and seemed content to stay there for the near future.

Credence, for his part, was content to let him, his own head falling back so he could stare at the ceiling, elated, feeling stronger than ever before.

 

* * * 

 

Time passed slowly in Scotland, in the remote Hebrides clime where Newt laid claim to his ancestral home. 

It was the most free time Graves had ever had in his life, and he spent it trailing along behind Credence, exploring the castle and going for long walks in the rambling moors of the property. He found he grew nervous if Credence was out of his sight for too long, but Credence seemed just as eager to be nearby, so Graves didn’t fight it.

His headaches were gone. Credence seemed remarkably clearheaded as well, especially after Graves had cornered Newt one evening and forced him to tell Graves all the details of Credence’s mental afflictions after the battle with the Obscurus, the disorientation, the confusion, the amnesia.

Graves hadn’t slept well after learning that, and spent the night holding Credence to him, listening to him breathe evenly in sleep, as he stared at the ceiling and berated himself for letting any of this happen in the first place.

An owl arrived for them both within a few days, a missive from Tina.

"Can I open it?" Credence asked dubiously.

"It's addressed to us both," Graves pointed out, but he felt just as unsure about it.

Finally, they settled into the couch in the library, and Credence read aloud, slow and deliberate.

 _Dear Credence and Auror Graves (you'll always be an Auror to me)_ , it read.

_Please find enclosed my completed research into Credence's biological family. Graves, I hope you'll forgive me, but I saw some of your research on your desk, and I followed up on a lead or two I'd found during my first interaction with Credence._

Credence paused at that. He'd learned of Tina's attempts to intercede on his behalf, and it seemed now to remind him of his mother. He hadn't spoken of her death, or his feelings about it. Graves hadn't pushed.

They were being careful with each other. They also weren’t talking any much.

Credence resumed reading:  _I can say with reasonable certainty, Credence, that you actually were related to Mary Lou Barebone, at least as a distance relative, at most as a possible aunt. I traced your lineage to a magical family in Hoboken, New Jersey, a witch and wizard with a male infant, who disappeared as of 1906. Their whereabouts are unknown, but if my lead is correct, you were their son._

_Your name was Daniel Jones._

Credence stopped reading, the emotion creeping into his voice.

"Daniel," Graves repeated. "It's a rather 

Credence set aside the letter without finishing. "Please call me Credence," he said softly. "That's my name now."

"Whatever you want," Graves promised, but Credence was quiet for the rest of the day, and didn't mention his family.

Graves kept on being carefuly, and didin't bring it up either, but he did wonder.

When he asked Credence to tell him more about what Grindelwald had said, what he’d done, when he was masquerading as Graves, Credence deftly deflected the question, instead pulling Graves into a musty storage closet to kiss him ravenously until Graves found he’d forgotten the question in the first place.

But they did not make love. Something kept bringing Graves up short. He couldn’t keep his hands off Credence, always needed to be touching him to the point he worried his clinging would drive Credence away, but he hadn’t pushed for more than thorough petting and kissing since he’d arrived in Scotland.

Credence seemed puzzled, but didn’t push back when Graves slowed things down.

He didn’t treat Graves any differently, didn’t give any sign of resentment or anger at what had happened. By contrast, Percival found himself obsessed with it.

He couldn’t get Grindelwald out of his head, and had vast, intricate dreams about sneaking into his cell in prison and strangling him to death, with his hands and with his magic, and sometimes both at once. He dreamed about whirling around when he first ambushed Graves outside of the MACUSA building and preventing this all from occurring in the first place. He dreamed of recognizing from the start that Credence was an Obscurial, and discovering some heroic way to remove the Obscurus without Credence having to go through years of fear and uncertainty, and distrust of his own magic.

The distrust of his magic was still going strong, apparently.

He woke up one morning two weeks after arriving to find the bed empty. He dressed and washed quickly with freezing spring water (the castle had no plumbing, magical or otherwise) and came downstairs to find Newt talking intently with Credence. He was holding a wand. 

“You need to give it a try,” Newt was saying. “Just hold it. The Obscurus is gone. You won’t feel the same pull to darkness when you hold it now, I promise.”

“I don’t see why I need to,” Credence said stubbornly. He looked at the wand like it was a bomb.

Graves crept closer, staying quiet so he could listen.

Newt sighed, running a hand through his hair and making more of a mess of it. “You are an incredibly powerful wizard.” 

“You don’t know that.” 

“I do,” Graves interrupted. Both Newt and Credence whirled, caught off guard, as Graves stepped into the room. “Credence, if you were able to carry an Obscurus with you for over twenty years, you can get over your fear of magic.” 

Credence looked stricken. Graves wasn’t sure what he had done wrong, but Credence turned to Newt. “Thank you for the advice, Newt,” he said stiffly and left the room in a hurry.

Newt cast a judgmental look his way, and Graves ignored him entirely.

But that night, as they prepared for bed, Credence was still distracted. Graves touched him on the shoulder, but Credence shrunk away. Finally, Graves threw his hands up, at a loss. “What on earth is the matter?” 

“It’s nothing,” Credence said. “Why do you care?”

Graves did his best not to sound too testy when he said, “I want to fix what’s wrong, if I can.”

“Maybe I’m just too _afraid_ ,” Credence said under his breath, voice mocking.

So that’s what it was. Graves sighed. “I’m sorry I misspoke earlier. It makes perfect sense if you’re uneasy with magic, after what you went through."

“I’m not afraid of magic!” Credence said fiercely, looking intensely afraid even as he spoke. “And what would you know about it, you’re afraid all the time!”

Now that was too much. “I’m not afraid,” Graves said, a little offended.

“Then why haven’t you touched me since you’ve gotten here?” 

Graves sputtered unattractively. “I touch you constantly! I touch you so much I feel like I must be going a little crazy, and it’s still not enough!” He looked down at his hands in demonstration, which even now had crept to touch Credence's waist as they argued.

Credence crossed his arms mulishly. “Not like that. I mean—in bed.” He flushed, looking away. “You don’t want me anymore, after what’s happened.”

“Credence,” Graves admonished harshly, furious at the very idea. He cupped the side of Credence's face. “That’s not true. Don’t speak like that, my love.”

“It’s my scars, isn’t it,” Credence pressed.

Graves looked down his body in bewilderment. He saw the light marks from the battle with the Aurors peeking around the corners of his clothes. He saw the unmistakable round red burn marks of a Scorching hex at his collar, a series of long scrapes down his forearm that might have been from a Crucio, thrown in the heat of battle, even though Aurors were technically forbidden from utilizing Unforgivable curses. 

When Graves glanced up, he saw Credence staring fixedly at the wall. He seemed to be holding his breath.

“Credence,” Graves said. He rubbed his thumb over one of the scars near his shoulder. “I feel responsible for them, yes. But they do not keep me from touching you, from wanting you.” 

Graves realized too late he’d walked himself into a bit of a trap when Credence demanded, exasperated, “Then why won’t you?” 

Graves turned away, abashed. Because the more he thought of it, the more he realized Credence was right. He was afraid. Too afraid to admit it, in fact, until he looked at Credence and saw his bondmate pleading with him silently to explain himself. 

“Because when you look at me, I know you see him, and the things he said to you, how he betrayed you, with my face, and my voice.” Graves closed his eyes in defeat. “How can you bear to look at me?” he gasped out. “How can you look at me and not see _him_?”

“If I can trust that you—that you want me, with what I was, with all this,” he stuttered, waving vaguely at the marks that marred his skin, “then why can’t you trust me, too?”

“I do trust you,” Graves said in a low voice.

“Prove it.”

“I worry that I’ll...that I’ll hurt you.” Graves flushed at the admission. It was unmanly, that he couldn’t control himself. It wasn’t Credence’s job to withstand his uncontrollable lust. He needed to exercise restraint. “I look at you sometimes and I want to take you, take you hard, to prove you’re mine, that you’re really here with me, and it’s—I don’t trust myself.”

“I trust you,” Credence insisted. "I _choose_ you. I choose our bond."  
  
Graves felt hot all over. “Maybe you shouldn’t.” 

“Prove it,” he said again, gloriously defiant. He glared at Graves like he was daring him to be rough, to harm him, to push too hard. His eyes were almost glowing. He was the most beautiful thing Graves had ever seen, he thought, stunned, staring at him.

He snapped. He lunged forward and took Credence down onto the bed, covering him heavily with his body, trapping his legs and arms down.

“You silly little thing,” Graves murmured into Credence’s ear. He licked up his neck, making Credence tense, then sigh. “My god, I don’t deserve you.”

“Don't say that,” Credence said, annoyed. He struggled to spread his legs, caught by the weight of Graves’ hips holding him firmly to the bed. “Move, let me, I want—”

Graves cut him off with a kiss. He took his time, tasting Credence as deeply as he wanted, sucking on his tongue until Credence began to squirm, pulling away as Credence lifted his head, chasing after him. He looked up at Graves, pouting slightly. Graves chuckled and kissed him on the nose, and Credence smiled. He let his head hit the pillow, grinning brightly up at Graves. 

Graves lost whatever train of thought he’d been on, gazing down at him.

He found it astounding that after all the trouble this bond had put Credence through, he still wanted him, wanted Graves, and even then, he somehow doubted if Graves wanted him _back_ , of all the ridiculous things. 

He grabbed his wand from the bedside table and cast a quick Declothing spell. Their clothes shot off and landed in a pile across the room, and they were naked. 

“I didn’t know you could do that,” Credence said accusingly. His skin dimpled delicately under the cool air.

Graves smiled. “Sometimes I like to undress you myself. But not tonight.” He pulled Credence’s wrists up until Credence could wrap his hands around the metal rungs on the headboard. “Put your hands up here, darling,” Graves instructed gently. “Can you keep them here?” He kissed Credence under the chin, letting his teeth drag just a little. “Can you?”

“Yes, Percival,” Credence hissed out. He tilted his head up higher, giving Graves all the access possible, Graves loving the long stretch of his neck. He sucked at the thin skin there, moving slowly down, tongue laving at the red marks, as Credence twitched and fretted beneath him.

He felt Credence’s cock twitch, a hot length growing harder and pressing insistently against his stomach. He ignored it, bring his mouth down to mouth at Credence’s nipple. He laved his tongue over it, tested his teeth on it, then tugged on the hard point. 

Credence whined, arms twitching, but he kept his hands up.

He shifted down, dragging his mouth across Credence’s chest and belly, until he was level with his cock. He let his hot breath out, watching Credence twitch. He paused, drawing out the moment, and watched Credence freeze tight, waiting, his muscles taught. 

Graves pressed a stinging, open-mouthed kiss to the vulnerable curve of his inner thigh, and as Credence shuddered, he sucked his cock down to the root.

“Percival!” Credence yelped out. “Oh, _god_.”

Percival got lost in the act for a while, the soft, shaken sounds pouring out of Credence’s mouth, the taste of him on his tongue, the closeness of Credence laid out beneath him, taking whatever Graves had to give.

He pulled off with a slick pop, laughing breathlessly at the needy sound Credence made, his hips chasing his mouth. 

“A moment, my love,” Graves said, his voice gone hoarse. He grabbed his wand and settled back. “If you start using your wand, you can do handy little spells like this.” He whispered, wand poised, and watched the cleft of Credence’s ass go slick and dewy.

“Don’t tease,” Credence scolded, then moaned as Graves pressed a thumb lightly against his hole, just testing the resistance. Credence’s back bowed, arching off the bed. 

“Sh, my love,” Graves hushed, pressing his free hand to his chest, pushing him down just firmly enough that Credence went boneless. “No need to rush.” 

He watched, rapt, as Credence took one finger so easily, clenching down on it as Graves pushed in, then out, feeling his own mouth fall open.

“Credence,” he whispered, his own cock throbbing as he saw the way Credence’s drooled against his belly. 

He added a finger, stretching, tugging lightly against the rim. Credence toes curled, his knees coming up to raise his hips, riding Graves’ fingers, his eyes wide and sightless as he huffed out little breaths. 

Graves mouth went dry at the sight, and before he knew it he had to taste him again, bending down to lick and slurp at Credence’s cock, worshipping him in every small way he could. He sucked just the crown into his mouth, and crooked his fingers, knowing he was rubbing just right inside Credence when he arched off the bed again, keening. 

“Percival, Percival, oh, _oh_ ,” Credence moaned, nearly mindless.

Graves was feeling mindless with it too. He pulled off Credence's cock, wrapping his hand firmly around it at the base, dragging his thumb over the delicate veins under the head. “Credence,” he said urgently, “can I?” Inside Credence, Graves dragged the pads of his fingers over that perfect spot once more, just to see Credence jerk, all while hands remaining tight on the bedframe. “My love, can I?”

Credence nodded frantically, his head lolling back and forth on the pillow.

Carefully, Graves pulled his fingers out, unable to resist dragging his fingers one last time over the pink puffiness of his hole. His hand was shaking as he brought it to his own cock, rubbing himself as he stared at Credence, and then looked up at his face. 

Credence was watching him, rapt.

Graves sat back on his heels and pulled Credence into his lap in one sharp movement, extending his arms as far as they would go while still gripping the headboard, drawing a surprised cry out of him at the stretch. He draped Credence’s legs open on either side of his hips, giving Graves all the leverage, Credence free to do nothing but take. 

He rubbed a soothing hand over Credence’s hip, his other gripping his cock and pressing it against him, just the tip just entering him. 

“Percival, please,” Credence cried out, his entire body shaking, and Graves couldn’t wait anymore.

He drove ahead, bottoming out and going still to catch his breath, to stop himself from coming right there, the heat of Credence around him and the sound of Credence breathing fitfully and the feel of his body was nearly too much.

Growing impatient, Credence pressed his heel against Graves’ ass. “Come on,” he begged. He met Graves’ gaze, and a spark of mischief entered his eye. “Fuck me,” he said, the profanity a little awkward on his tongue, but the overall spirit of it enough to drive a broken groan from Graves' chest.

He grabbed Credence by the hips and withdrew almost completely, then drove back in hard, using his grip on Credence to propel him firmly into each thrust, driving a groan out him as he plunged in, and in, until Credence was wailing, overcome, cries ripped from his throat, and Graves was senseless with it, grunting helplessly as he fucked him, over and over again on his lap.

He looked up Credence’s body, laid out like a feast, his pale skin blotched and glistening with exertion, his black hair a mess on the pillows. His eyes had drifted closed, red mouth open, a delicate frown etched on his brow. He was gripping the bed for dear life.

All at once, Graves needed Credence's hands on him. 

He fell forward onto his elbows, the change in angle shoving his cock in deeper than ever, both of them groaning at it. He wrapped his arms around Credence body, and Credence curling his legs tightly around Graves until they were perfectly entangled. 

Credence was watching him intently. “Touch me,” Graves begged. “Please, touch me.”

With a cry, Credence released the bed and ran his hands hungrily down Graves body, gripping his ass, pulling his punishingly against him, driving them harder and faster until Graves felt the rush building, and needed more than anything for Credence to reach his end first.

They were pressed too close together for Graves to get a hand on his cock, but the friction must be good from the way Credence was shivering. He brought one hand up to curl in Graves’ hair, yanking just enough.

“I love you,” Graves moaned, pressing his face into Credence’s neck. “I love you, I love you, _please_.”

Credence went stiff, letting out a final cry, going rigid as he came untouched between them.

Graves chased his own end, thrusts going jerky and uneven, wishing he could stay inside him forever but unable to forestall it any longer. He groaned, falling headlong into the rush.

He fell to one side, but Credence immediately huddled close, curving into Graves’ side as they panted loudly into the sudden silence of the room.

From across the hallway, there was a distinct, dry round of applause. 

Credence threw his hands over his face. “Newt! I completely forgot.” He poked Graves in the ribs. “You should have cast a Silencing spell.”

"I was a bit distracted,” Graves noted. He gathered his wand and cast a cleaning spell instead, Credence gasping just a little at the sensation of being intimately cleansed.

He settled against Graves. “That was...” He rubbed his cheek against Graves’ bare chest.

“It really was.” Graves put aside his wand and fell into bed. “I should have trusted you,” he admitted quietly. “You are stronger than I give you credit for.” 

“I’m told that I’m a very powerful wizard, you know,” Credence said, gently playful. He yawned widely. “I am also a Graves.” 

Deep inside Graves, the nameline power throbbed with exquisite pleasure.

 

* * *  

 

The next day found them wrapped in a flannel blanket on the porch, watching the sun struggle to rise through the mist.

“What do we do now?” Credence asked into the quiet. He felt a restlessness that was new to his time in Scotland. He’d arrived here lost and adrift, and he’d felt nothing but pure happiness when Percival had arrived, but now he wondered what came next.

They couldn’t live with Newt forever, horrifying him with their nighttime activities, and Credence wanted to see Silas, reassure him, and collect Modesty and Chastity from wherever they were in California, ensure they were alright.

“We can do whatever we want,” Percival said easily. He sounded unconcerned. Now that Credence thought about it, he hadn’t mentioned MACUSA once.

“What about your work?”

Percival sat back against the hanging chair, cuddling Credence closer. “I’m on a sabbatical.” 

Credence twisted in his arms to look at him. “What does that mean?”

“It means that I’ve decided to take an indefinite leave.” He pressed a kiss into Credence’s hair. “It means that when we started this bond, I expected you to form your life to mine, but I never did the same for you.” He kissed him again. “It means I want to continue as we mean to go on, and see if we can’t get on an even keel if we try for it this time.”

“Maybe,” he said deliberately, unsure, “if it’s possible, maybe we could look for my family?” He swallowed at the lump in his throat. “My real family. The Joneses, from Hoboken.”

“Absolutely,” Percival said without hesitation. “We can go back to the States, and gather your sisters, and maybe we can make a trip of it. Visit all the sights in New Jersey.” He nudged Credence playfully. “I am a wealthy heir, you know. It’s time for our extravagant honeymoon.” 

“To New Jersey?” Credence asked dubiously. 

Percival chuckled. “Why not." He hesitated, and then added, unusually hesitant, "And maybe, if you wanted, I could help you with your magic. Some day, of course," he hurried to clarify. "There's no pressure. If you never wanted to learn, that would be fine—"

"I think," Credence spoke over him, and Percival went silent. Credence chewed his bottom lip, and thought of the few times he'd felt safe with his magic. He thought of using it to eavesdrop on Ma and Grindelwald. He thought of how without the dark Obscurus within him, his magic felt lighter, almost happier. And finally, after a long deliberation, he took the leap. "I think I would like that. Some day."

"Whenever you want," Percival agreeed seriously. "It’s our life.”

As much as he hated to let the doubt in, it seemed like Percival was willing to give up an awful lot, to _give_ an awful lot, without much in return, just for Credence. Some of his insecurity must have come through, because Percival tugged him around to face him. 

His eyes were unbearably tender as he looked at Credence, and Credence found he was powerless not to look back, probably just as helplessly fond.

Percival touched his cheek. “You said before that you chose me, that you chose our bond.” A rather tremulous smile made its way across Percival’s face. “Can’t I choose you back?”

Credence leaned his head on Percival’s shoulder. He felt achingly happy down to his bones. “Yes, Percival. You can.”

 

* * *

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> it's over!!!!!! woo, what a whirlwind. I want to thank you guys so much for your support, this has been so much fun, starting out in a fandom, writing for a new pairing, I laughed, I cried, I had the time of my life.
> 
> also, now that this sucker is all finished and done with, I'd like to try tricking more people into giving this big boy a try. so if you liked, please share. I also truly, deeply suck at fic summaries, so if any of you lovely readers has a suggestion for how better to encapsulate this fic in a short punchy summary than the one I've got right now, please feel free to send it my way [at my tumblr](ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com). I'll credit you and everything. and if you think there are any pertinent tags I'm missing, same deal, shoot me a note.
> 
> check out my tumblr for dumb funny stuff, and sometimes writing. again: love you dudes. deeply. from my heart.

**Author's Note:**

> also I'm on [tumblr dot com](ohjafeeljadefinitelyfeel.tumblr.com) if you're into that.


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